he was
jes' going t' start right in on his fren'. An' de luck turns his way,
anyhow, and de lil' feller loses. 'I gibs yo' 'twill six-thirty
to-night,' de big man says. 'Dat's ma reg'lar dinner hour, an' I'm
moughty savage ef I go much over ma dinner time.'

"Golly, boss!" added the porter, "Ah jes' 'bleeged tun say sumpin', an Ah
tells 'em de dinin' kyar'll sho'ly obertake us fo' six-thirty. Ya'as,
indeedy. An' den, dar's dat lady up dar wid de sour-vinegary sort o'
face. Ah jes' heard her say she'd be fo'ced tuh eat her back-comb if she
didn't have her lunch pu'ty soon. A' yo' knows, Mistah Ca'tah, no lady's
indigestion is a-gwine tuh stan' up under no sech fodder as dat."

"You old silly!" ejaculated the conductor. "These people have been
fooling you. I'll separate those two drummers so that they won't eat each
other--or concoct any more stories with which to worry you, Nick. Come
on, young ladies. We'll see about that dog."

"And look through the express matter--do!" begged Nan.

"Surely will," replied the conductor. "But I expect we'll have to tie and
muzzle the express messenger."

Bess thought this funny, too, and she giggled again. In fact, Nan
declared her chum had a bad case of the "giggles" and begged her to
behave herself.

"I don't believe that castaways set out to explore their island for food
in any such light-minded manner as you display, Elizabeth," Nan observed.

"Oh, dear! I can't help it," Bess gasped. "That darkey is so funny. He's
just as innocent as--as--"

"The man, Friday," finished Nan.

"Goody! that's who he is," agreed Bess. "He's Friday. Oh! if Laura Polk
were only here, wouldn't she have lots of fun with him?"

"Seems as though those two drummers were bothering poor Friday
quite enough."

They heard the little spaniel yelping the moment they opened the
baggage car door.

"The poor 'ittle sing!" cooed Bess, running to the corner where the puppy
was imprisoned. "Oh! how cold it is in here. It would be a little icicle,
so it would be, in a little while."

"Let's see where he's going, and whom he belongs to," Mr. Carter said.
"I'll have to make a note of this, and so will Jim, the baggage-man. You
want to take good care of this little tyke, for the railroad is
responsible for him while he is in transit."

He stooped down and brought his light to bear upon the tag wired to the
top of the crate. "Ravell Bulson, Jr., Owneyville, Illinois," he read
aloud, making a note of it in hi