A PECULIAR GIRL.
The remainder of the stop in Yellowstone Park proved a delightful time.
"I wish I could sthay wid ye, Frankie, me b'y," said Barney, one day.
"Stay with me? What do you mean?" asked Frank.
"Oi have news from home. Oi must go back to Fardale to rasume me
studies."
"I'll be sorry to lose you Barney." And Frank spoke the truth, for he
loved his Irish chum a good deal.
Just then Professor Scotch burst in on the pair, telegram in hand.
"I must return East at once," he cried. "A relative of mine has died and
I must settle up his affairs."
"Two at once!" ejaculated Frank. "Then I'll be left to continue my
travels alone."
"Not for long, my boy," answered the professor. "I will soon return to
see that you fall into no more danger."
Two days later found Frank alone, the professor and Barney have taken
the eastbound train the evening before. Frank proceeded to Ogden, Utah,
where he spent three days in sight-seeing.
But he was anxious to go farther West, and one fine day found him a
passenger on the Pacific Express, bound for San Francisco.
Every seat in the parlor cars was taken, as Frank discovered, on
endeavoring to obtain one. Then he decided that any kind of a seat would
do, but nearly every one was occupied.
As he passed through the train, he noticed a girl of seventeen or
eighteen who seemed to be sitting alone. She was reading, and, as Frank
came along, she dropped the book in her lap, looked up, and smiled.
Frank touched his hat, paused, and asked:
"Is this seat taken, miss?"
"No, sir."
"Would you object----"
He paused significantly, smiling back at her.
"Not at all," was her immediate reply, as she drew a bit nearer the
window, and he sat down.
The book in the girl's lap was a noted one of detective tales. Frank
caught his breath in astonishment as he noted this.
"Queer literature for such a girl to be perusing," was his mental
observation.
He cast a sly glance at her. She was looking out of the window, but the
side of her face was toward him. Frank noted that she had a beautiful
profile, and that there was a most innocent and winsome expression about
her mouth. Her hair was golden and her eyes were blue.
There was a refinement and delicacy about the girl which impressed Frank
favorably.
Still, he wondered that a girl like her should be reading a book of
detective tales. She was the sort of a girl he would have expected to
see perusing love stories of the "Bertha M. Clay" class.
He longed to get into conversation with her, and yet, for all of the
smile with which she had seemed to greet him, something held him back
and told him it was not wise to be too forward.
At last she resumed reading again. She did not read long. With a faint,
scornful laugh, she dropped the book in her lap.
Frank fancied he saw an opportunity to "break the ice."
"You do not seem to like those stories," he observed.
"They are very amusing, and utterly improbable and impossible," she
said.
The boy laughed.
"Then you fancy the author overdrew his hero?" he asked.
"To be sure he did. There is no detective living who can do such
astonishing things as this one is credited with. No such detective ever
lived."
"Possibly not."
"Surely not. You cannot make me believe that a detective could come in
here, look me over, and then tell everything about me almost to my name
and the hour of my birth. Rubbish!"
Frank's wonder at the girl was on the increase. She did not talk much
like the ordinary girl of seventeen.
"If you dislike the stories so much how does it happen you are reading
them?"
"Oh, I do not dislike them. I confess that I found them very amusing,
but I am beginning to weary of them."
"I consider it remarkable that you attempted reading them."
"Why?"
"Young ladies like you seldom care for this kind of literature."
"Oh, I see. I presume not. They are too sentimental--soft, some call it.
Well, I am not sentimental."
"Perhaps not."
She lifted her eyebrows and pursed her lips a bit.
"You say that as if you do not believe me. Never mind. It makes no
difference whether you believe me or not."
She did not seem offended, and still she gave him to understand that
what he thought was of little consequence to her.
"Well," laughed Frank, "I have never yet met a girl who did not declare
she was bound to be an old maid, and those are the very ones who get
married first."
"And you think, because of that, that I must be sentimental, as I have
said that I am not, do you?"
"Oh, well--you see--I--I----"
She interrupted him with a merry laugh.
"Do not be afraid to answer. I don't mind. We are strangers, and why
should I be offended?"
"It is true we are strangers," said Frank; "and, as we may be seatmates
for some time to come, I will offer my card."
He drew out a cardcase and gave her a delicate bit of cardboard, with
his name engraved upon it.
"Frank Merriwell," she read. "Why, that is a splendid name, and it seems
to fit you so well! I like you all the better for your name."
"Whew!" thought Frank. "That is point-blank, and still she says she is
not sentimental. She may not be, but she is decidedly complimentary on
short acquaintance."
Aloud, he said:
"I am happy there is something about me that you admire, if it is no
more than my name."
She smiled, looking at him in a big-eyed, innocent way.
"Why, I didn't say that was all. I have not known you long enough to
tell. I am no gifted detective, and I cannot read your character at a
glance."
"Well, supposing we say the detective was a freak or a myth, and
relegate him to the background."
"That goes," she said.
Then she clapped her hand over her mouth, with a little exclamation of
dismay, quickly exclaiming:
"That is dreadful! I completely forgot myself! You see, I have been away
to school, and I caught on to some slang there, and I find I can't shake
it, although mamma doesn't like to have me make such breaks."
She paused, a look of the utmost dismay coming to her face, as if she
just realized what she had been saying.
It was with the utmost difficulty Frank restrained his laughter. At the
same time he felt his liking and admiration for the strange girl growing
swiftly. The little slip into slang seemed to add to her innocence,
especially when followed by such utter dismay.
"I am bound to do it occasionally," she said, after a few moments. "I
can't seem to get out of the habit, although I have tried. I trust you
will pardon me."
"Certainly."
"Thank you. I'll keep this card. I have none of my own with me. My name
is Isa Isban."
Somehow, that name was a shock to Frank. He could not have told why, to
save his life, but there was something unpleasant about it. It did not
seem to fit the girl at all.
However, this feeling soon passed, and they were chatting freely in a
short time. Their conversation drifted from topic to topic, and Frank
was delighted to find his fair companion wondrously well informed on
subjects such as are given little attention by most young girls. She
could even talk politics rationally, and she rather worsted Frank on a
tariff discussion.
"You are beyond my comprehension," he declared, admiringly. "Where you
ever learned so much is more than I can understand."
"Do you fancy that young men are the only ones who know things? If you
do, you are sure to find there are others---- Oh, dear! there I go
again."
Having become so well acquainted, Frank asked if she were bound for San
Francisco, and, to his disappointment, she informed him that Carson City
was her destination.
The conductor came through the train for tickets. Frank had his ready,
and the girl began searching for hers, but had not found it when the
conductor came along.
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, and Frank was about to offer to aid her, if
she needed a loan, when she opened her purse and took out several bills,
every one of them new and crisp, and of large denominations.
"The smallest I have is fifty dollars," she said. "Papa gave me large
bills, as he said they would not be so bulky."
"I can't change a bill of that size," said the conductor.
"I can," put in Frank, immediately producing his pocketbook. "I will
break it for you."
So he took the new bank-note, and gave her two twenties, a five and five
ones for it, enabling her to pay her fare without difficulty.
The conductor gave the girl a rebate ticket and passed on.
"Thank you so much!" she said to Frank. "I believe I may have trouble in
getting those large bills broken. Would you mind giving me small bills
for another fifty?"
Frank did not mind, and he gave them.
Thereby hangs a tale.