ne of them?" I inquired.

"Why, we might pretend to be married!" Her frank and absolutely
innocent delight in this suggestion was refreshing, but troubling.

"We would have to be demonstrative to make that story go," I said.

"Why? Well-bred people are not demonstrative in public," she retorted,
turning a trifle pink.

"No, but in private--"

"I think there is no necessity for carrying a pleasantry into our
private life," she said, in a perfectly amiable voice. "Anyway, if
Professor Farrago's feelings are to be spared, no sacrifice on the
part of a mere girl could be too great," she added, gayly; "I will
wear men's clothes if you wish."

"You may have to anyhow in the jungle," I said; "and as it's not an
uncommon thing these days, nobody would ever take you for anything
except what you are--a very wilful and plucky and persistent and--"

"And what, Mr. Gilland?"

"And attractive," I muttered.

"Thank you, Mr. Gilland."

"You're welcome," I snapped. The near whistle of a locomotive warned
us, and I rose in the carriage, looking out across the sand-hills.

"That is probably our train," observed the pretty stenographer.

"_Our_ train!"

"Yes; isn't it?"

"Then you insist--"

"Ah, no, Mr. Gilland; I only trust implicitly in my employer."

"We'll wait till we get to Citron City," I said, weakly; "then it will
be time enough to discuss the situation, won't it?"

"Yes, indeed," she said, smiling; but she knew, and I already feared,
that the situation no longer admitted of discussion. In a few moments
more we emerged, without warning, from the scrub-crested sand-hills
into the single white street of Citron City, where China-trees hung
heavy with bloom, and magnolias, already set with perfumed candelabra,
spread soft, checkered shadows over the marl.

The train lay at the station, oceans of heavy, black smoke lazily
flowing from the locomotive; negroes were hoisting empty fruit-crates
aboard the baggage-car, through the door of which I caught a glimpse
of my steel cage and remaining paraphernalia, all securely crated.

"Telegram hyah foh Mistuh Gilland," remarked the operator, lounging at
his window as we descended from our dusty vehicle. He had not
addressed himself to anybody in particular, but I said that I was Mr.
Gilland, and he produced the envelope. "Toted in from Okeechobee?" he
inquired, listlessly.

"Probably; it's signed 'Farrago,' isn't it?"

"It's foh yoh, suh, I reckon," said the operator