CHAPTER VI
CLAY TAKES A TRANSFER
From the top of a bus Clay Lindsay looked down a canon which angledacross the great city like a river of light.
He had come from one land of gorges to another. In the walls of thisone, thousands and tens of thousands of cliff-dwellers hid themselvesduring the day like animals of some queer breed and poured out into thecanon at sunset.
Now the river in its bed was alive with a throbbing tide.Cross-currents of humanity flowed into it from side streets and ebbedout of it into others. Streams of people were swept down, caught hereand there in swirling eddies. Taxis, private motors, and trolley-carsstruggled in the raceway.
Electric sky-signs flashed and changed. From the foyer of theaters andmoving-picture palaces thousands of bulbs flung their glow to thegorge. A mist of light hung like an atmosphere above the Great WhiteWay.
All this Clay saw in a flash while his bus crossed Broadway on its wayto the Avenue. His eyes had become accustomed to this brilliance inthe weeks that had passed since his descent upon New York, butfamiliarity had not yet dulled the wonder of it.
The Avenue offered a more subdued picture. This facet showed a glimpseof the city lovelier and more leisurely, though not one so feverishlygay. It carried his mind to Beatrice Whitford. Some touch of thequality of Fifth Avenue was in her soul. It expressed itself in thesimple elegance of her dress and in the fineness of the graceful, vitalbody. Her gayety was not at all the high spirits of Broadway, butthere were times when her kinship to Fifth Avenue knifed the foolishhopes in his heart.
He had become a fast friend of Miss Whitford. Together they hadtramped through Central Park and motored up the Hudson in one of herfather's cars. They had explored each other's minds along with thecountry and each had known the surprise and delight of discoveries, offinding in the other a quality of freshness and candor.
Clay sensed in this young woman a spirit that had a way of sweeping upon gay young wings to sudden joys stirred by the simplest causes. Heroutlook on life was as gallant as that of a fine-tempered schoolboy. Agallop in the Park could whip the flag of happiness into her cheeks. Awild flower nestling in a bed of moss could bring the quick light toher eyes. Her responsiveness was a continual delight to him just asher culture was his despair. Of books, pictures, and music she knewmuch more than he.
The bus jerked down Fifth Avenue like a boat in heavy seas, pausinghere and there at the curb to take on a passenger. While it wasgetting under way after one such stop, another downtown bus rolled past.
Clay came to a sudden alert attention. His eyes focused on a girlsitting on a back seat. In the pretty, childish face he read a wistfulhelplessness, a pathetic hint of misery that called for sympathy.
Arizona takes short cuts to its ends. Clay rose instantly, put hisfoot on the railing, and leaped across to the top of the bus rollingparallel with the one he was on. In another second he had dropped intothe seat beside the girl.
"Glad to meet you again, Miss Kitty," he said cheerfully. "How's thebig town been using you?"
The girl looked at him with a little gasp of surprise. "Mr. Lindsay!"Sudden tears filmed her eyes. She forgot that she had left him withthe promise never again to speak to him. She was in a far country, andhe was a friend from home.
The conductor bustled down the aisle. "Say, where do you get thismovie-stunt stuff? You can't jump from the top of one bus to another."
Clay smiled genially. "I can't, but I did."
"That ain't the system of transfers we use in this town. You might 'a'got killed."
"Oh, well, let's not worry about that now."
"I'd ought to have you pulled. Three years I've been on this run and--"
"Nice run. Wages good?"
"Don't get gay, young fellow. I can tell you one thing. You've got topay another fare."
Clay paid it.
The conductor retired to his post. He grinned in spite of his officialdignity. There was something about this young fellow he liked. Afterhe had been in New York awhile he would be properly tamed.
"What about that movie job? Is it pannin' out pay gold?" Lindsay askedKitty.
Bit by bit her story came out. It was a common enough one. She hadbeen flim-flammed out of her money by the alleged school ofmoving-picture actors, and the sharpers had decamped with it.
As she looked at her recovered friend, Kitty gradually realized anoutward transformation in his appearance. He was dressed quietly inclothes of perfect fit made for him by Colin Whitford's tailor. Fromshoes to hat he was a New Yorker got up regardless of expense. But thewarm smile, the strong, tanned face, the grip of the big brown handthat buried her small one--all these were from her own West. So toohad been the nonchalance with which he had stepped from the rail of onemoving bus to that of the other, just as though this were his usualmethod of transfer.
"I've got a job at last," she explained to him. "I couldn't hardlyfind one. They say I'm not trained to do anything."
"What sort of a job have you?"
"I'm working downtown in Greenwich Village, selling cigarettes. I'mSylvia the Cigarette Girl. At least that's what they call me. I carrya tray of them evenings into the cafes."
"Greenwich Village?" asked Clay.
Kitty was not able to explain that the Village is a state of mind whichis the habitat of long-haired men and short-haired women, the brains ofwhom functioned in a way totally alien to all her methods of thought.The meaning of Bohemianism was quite lost on her simple soul.
"They're jist queer," she told him. "The women bob their hair and wearsmocks and sandals. The men are long-haired softies. They all talkkinda foolish." Kitty despaired of making the situation clear to himand resorted to the personal. "Can't you come down to-night to ThePurple Pup or The Sea Siren and see for yourself?" she proposed, andgave him directions for finding the classic resorts.
"I reckon they must be medicine fakirs," decided Clay. "I've met upwith these long-haired guys before. Sure I'll come."
"To-night?"
"You betcha, little pardner, I'll be there."
"I'm dressed silly--in bare feet and sandals and what they call asmock. You won't mind that, will you?"
"You'll look good to me, no matter what you wear, little MissColorado," he told her with his warm, big brother's smile.
"You're good," the girl said simply. "I knew that on the train evenwhen I--when I was mean to you." There came into her voice a smalltremor of apprehension. "I'm afraid of this town. It's so--so kindacruel. I've got no friends here."
He offered instant reassurance with a strong grip of his brown hand."You've got one, little pardner. I'll promise that one big husky willbe on the job when you need him. Don't you worry."
She gave him her shy eyes gratefully. There was a mist of tears inthem.
"You're good," she said again naively.