The porter withdrew, shaking his head, and in a few minutes Bob came back to his seat.  Betty, watching the girl, saw her glance sidewise at him from her narrow eyes, though she pretended to be absorbed in a magazine.

“I beg your pardon,” said Bob politely.

There was no response.

“Pardon me, but you’ve made a mistake,” began Bob again.  “You are in the wrong seat.”

The magazine came down with a crash and the girl’s face, distorted with rage, appeared in its place.

“Well, if I am, what are you going to do about it?” she shrilled rudely.

CHAPTER VI

FINE FEATHERS

Betty Gordon had always, foolishly perhaps, associated courtesy and good-breeding with beautiful clothes.  This strange girl, who could speak so on such slight provocation (none at all, to be exact) wore a handsome suit, and if her jewelry was too conspicuous it had the merit of being genuine.  Betty herself had a lively temper, but she was altogether free from snappishness and when she “blew up” the cause was sure to be unmistakable and significant.

Bob jumped when the girl fired her question at him.  There had been nothing in his limited experience with girls to prepare him for such an outburst.  Betty half expected him to acquiesce and leave the stranger in possession of his seat, but to her surprise he simply turned on his heel and walked away.  Not, however, before Betty had seen something bordering on contempt in his eyes.

“I’d hate to have Bob look at me like that,” she thought.  “It wasn’t as if he didn’t like her, or was mad at her—­what is it I am trying to say?  Bob looked as if—­as if—­Oh, bother, I know what I mean, but I can’t say it.”

The little spitfire in the seat beside her wriggled uneasily as if she, too, were not as comfortable as she would pretend.  Bob’s silent reception of her discourtesy had infuriated her, and she knew better than Betty where she stood in the boy’s estimation.  She had instantly forfeited his respect and probably his admiration forever.

In a few minutes Bob was back, and with him the conductor.

“Young lady, you’re in the wrong seat,” that official announced in a tone that admitted of no trifling.  “You were in eighteen in the other car and I had to move you to twenty-three in here.  Just follow me, please.”

He reached in and took one of the suitcases, and Bob matter-of-factly took the other two.  The girl opened her mouth, glanced at the conductor, and thought better of whatever she was going to say.  Meekly she followed him to another section on the other side of the car and found herself compelled to share a seat with a severe-looking gray-haired woman, evidently a sufferer from hay fever, as she sneezed incessantly.

Bob dropped down in his old place and shot a quizzical look at Betty.

“Flame City may be tough,” he observed, “and I’d be the last one to claim that it possessed one grain of culture; but at that, I can’t remember having a pitched battle with a girl during my care-free existence there.”