“How fresh some things keep!”

Roger Hapgood’s pink little face went violently red.

“I say!” he began.  “I didn’t mean any offense.  I thought—­”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she laughed, gaily.  “No offense whatever.  Will you please open that window for me?”

His face became normally pink again as he hastened to throw up the window in front of her.  His eyelid fluttered downward as he met the regard of a couple of men facing them.  Then he came back to her side.

“Thank you,” she smiled sweetly up at him.  And she held out her hand.

He didn’t know what she wanted to do that for, but had a confused idea that in the free and easy spirit of the West she was going to shake hands.  The next thing which he realized clearly was that she had dropped a shining ten-cent piece into his palm.

“Oh, look here,” he stammered, only to be interrupted by her voice, a gurgle of suppressed mirth in it.

“I’m sorry that that’s all I have in change!  And now, if you will hand me that magazine—­I want to read!”

Roger Hapgood fumbled with the dime and dropped it.  He swept up the magazine from a near-by chair and held it out to her.  As he did so he caught a glimpse of the faces of the two men at whom he had winked so knowingly, heard one of them break into loud, hearty laughter.  Dropping the magazine to her lap, the lavender young man, with what dignity he could command, marched back to the smoking-car.

A few minutes later Greek Conniston, returning to the smoking-car, found his friend pinching his smooth cheek thoughtfully and frowning out the window.  He dropped into his chair, deep in thought.  In the brief interval he had taken his resolution, plunging, as was his careless nature, after the first impulse.  The girl had interested him; he did not yet realize how much.  She came aboard the train without bag or baggage.  Certainly she could not be going far.  And he—­it didn’t matter in the least where he went.  All that he had to do was to keep out of his father’s way until the old man cooled down, and then to wire for money.  His ticket read to San Francisco, but he had no desire to go there rather than to any other place.  And he told himself that he had a sort of curiosity about this bleak, monotonous desert land.

An hour later the train ran into another little clutter of buildings and drew up, puffing, at the station.  Conniston’s eyes were alert, fixed upon the passageway from the observation-car rather than on the view from his window.  Mail-bags were tossed on and off, a few packages handled by the Wells Fargo man, and the train pulled out.  Conniston leaned back with a sigh.

“Roger,” he said, at last, “I’ve got a proposition to make.”

“Well?”

“Let’s drop off at one of these dinky towns and see what it’s like.  I’ve a notion we might find something new.”

“That’s a real joke, I suppose?”