“Why don’t you slide in by the frowzy blonde?” asked Sanford of Roark, who backed himself up against a seat in the first-class car, as the train came down the mountain.

“She’s like a snow peak,” said Roark. “I passed and looked longingly, but you should have seen the icy stare she handed me.”

“Yes, but when the train is crowded, as it is, she is not entitled to a whole seat,” responded Sanford. “You would be justified in scrouging in.”

“It is no question of my right,” said Roark, “but those frigid eyes took the nerve out of me. I think she’s been in cold storage.

“In beating about the country, old fellow, I have become somewhat of a physiognomist. The woman or man who holds an entire seat, in a crowded car, does so by force. Take the blonde there, why, you could not any more approach her than you could a bull dog nibbling on a bone.

“If I am one of many who occupy seats in a car and a stranger asks me if I will share with him I feel complimented. The person asked to share a seat with me, by me, should feel honored, for I do not sit down by any old scrub if I can avoid it, and I usually can. One day, not long ago, I saw a little girl on a car, unattended, go to a gentleman whom she had never seen before and take a seat by him. I did not know the man, but had admired his kind, gentle face, and the child had picked him as a safe companion.

“What a handsome compliment! I would give my fortune for that man’s countenance. Mark Twain is credited with saying that, in passing, a dog will lick the hand of an honest man, but will growl at a scoundrel.

“Instinct tells us.

“Of course, I should like to have that seat—any seat—but the young woman does not want to share it. I shall stand.”

The Shoofly was full to overflowing that day, but the blonde, with the wealth of hair, such as it was, and the drowsy look, traveled unmolested. Somewhere, while crossing the foothills, she lifted her feet to the seat, let her head down upon the aisle-arm, and slept. The engine blew, the wheels squeaked, and babies cried, but she knew it not; she was making up for lost time.

“She’s dead to the world now,” said Sanford joyfully.

“Yes,” declared Roark, “and if she doesn’t mind some of that hair will drop to the floor. I have been watching it shake as the car rocks on.”

“I should laugh if it would,” declared Sanford.

At that juncture the upper end of a long, yellow curl broke from its mooring, fell back and began to fly with the winds.

“Look at that,” said Roark.

The curl whirled around a time or two and fell to the floor.

The train moved on, crossing rough places in the road, and the sleeping head went up and down. A second curl—what is known as a Minerva knot—began to loosen in the east and the west.

“It’s a landslide this time,” said Sanford.

“It looks that way,” Roark acquiesced.

“But I shall not complain, no matter what comes.”

“I wish that lady would wake up,” said a female voice across the aisle. “I fear her hair will lose its Grecian effect. But I will not arouse her; it might make her mad.”

“I believe, without being able to say positively, Charlie, that she has on fluffy ruffers,” said Roark, laughing.

“I have studied the combination and I can’t quite unlock it,” said Sanford, “but I think she has what they call a transformation pompadour, with coronet braid, zephyr curls, all of which is covered with a bunch of real Grecian curls, but I must admit that I am not much on diagnosing a case like this.”

“Make way, for the earth is giving,” said a citizen who had just arrived.

A section of hair, shaped like a shovel, such as the farmers use for bursting out middles, or to go with a sweep, gave way and fell, inside up.

“That’s a loller-perlooler,” said Roark. “I wonder if we could get a basket to put it in?”

The rain of ornaments had started. Everybody was expectant. Rats, rolls, puffs, curls and knots were loosening. A bundle of wire, something akin to a small mouse trap, came with the hair.

“Nope, it’s the Wire Trust in disguise,” declared Roark.

“Hold your tongue! It’s a summer hotel,” said the newcomer, who had become thoroughly interested, as a bit of hair, done up in fine silk, fell out. “Rats, rat traps and mosquito nets.”

The lady began to wiggle.

“Carry me away,” said Roark.

“It’s to the Land of Nod for me,” exclaimed Sanford.

“The baggage room for me,” said the third observer.

Ten more rats, six rolls, two curls and a small knot were the last to go down. Piled on the floor, in the shape of a cone, was a peck measure full of all sorts of hair dressing. Yellow prevailed, but there was anything from a drab to a chemical blonde.

The owner, one time possessor, waked in the course of time, and, on feeling curious about the head, ran her hand back to see if she had lost anything.

“What about that?” said she to herself, realizing the extent of her loss.

“Ghnarr!” snorted Sanford, snoring.

“Whee-oo!” retorted Roark, who had fallen suddenly asleep in a seat, just captured.

“I am so thankful that everybody is asleep,” said the blonde, aside. “What a disgrace?”

“Spoo-it!” snored Sanford.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, the dislocated charms were picked up and shoved into a traveling bag, and the young woman retired to the toilet room, from which she emerged an hour later, looking as pert and as grand as ever, just as if nothing unusual had happened, every rat, or curl, in its place.

Sanford, Roark and their new friend, the man who arrived late, disputed over recent baseball scores.