“That’s perfectly outrageous,” it said.  “The young lady has paid her fare.”

“Did you see her pay it?” demanded the conductor.

“Naturally not,” said the voice.  “I got on at the last corner.  She was here then.  But if she said she did, she did.”

It seemed to relieve the conductor to have some one of his own sex to quarrel with.  He delivered a stream of admonition somewhat sulphurously phrased, to the general effect that any one whose concern the present affair was not, could, at his option, close his jaw or have his block knocked off.

Rose hadn’t, as yet, looked round at her champion.  But she now became aware that inside a shaggy gray sleeve which hung beside her, there was a sudden tension of big muscles; the gloved hand that had helped gather up her note-books, clenched itself into a formidable fist.  The thought of the sort of thud that fist might make against the over-active jaw of the conductor was pleasant.  Still, the thing mustn’t be allowed to happen.

She spoke quickly and decisively.  “I won’t pay another fare, but of course you may put me off the car.”

“All right,” said the conductor.

The girl smiled over the very gingerly way in which he reached out for her elbow to guide her around the rail and toward the step.  Technically, the action constituted putting her off the car.  She heard the crisp voice once more, this time repeating a number, “twenty-two-naught-five,” or something like that, just as she splashed down into the two-inch lake that covered the hollow in the pavement.  The bell rang twice, the car started with a jerk, there was another splash, and a big gray-clad figure alighted in the lake beside her.

“I’ve got his number,” the crisp voice said triumphantly.

“But,” gasped the girl, “but what in the world did you get off the car for?”

It wasn’t raining.  It was doing an imitation of Niagara Falls, and the roar of it almost drowned their voices.

“What did I get off the car for!” he shouted.  “Why, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.  It was immense!  It’s so confounded seldom,” he went on, “that you find anybody with backbone enough to stick up for a principle ...”

He heard a brief, deep-throated little laugh and pulled up short with a, “What’s the joke?”

“I laughed,” she said, “because you have been deceived.”  And she added quickly, “I don’t believe it’s quite so deep on the sidewalk, is it?” With that she waded away toward the curb.

He followed, then led the way to a lee-wall that offered, comparatively speaking, shelter.

Then, “Where’s the deception?” he asked.

On any other day, it’s probable she’d have acted differently; would have paid some heed, though a bit contemptuously, perhaps, to the precepts of ladylike behavior, in which she’d been admirably grounded.  The case for reticence and discretion was a strong one.  The night was dark; the rain-lashed street deserted; the man an utterly casual stranger—­why, she hadn’t even had a straight look into his face.  His motive in getting off the car was at least dubitable.  Even if not sinister, it could easily be unpleasantly gallant.  A man might not contemplate doing her bodily harm, and still be capable of trying to collect some sort of sentimental reward for the ducking he had submitted himself to.