"Goody! that's who he is," agreed Bess. "He's Friday. Oh! if Laura Polk
were only here, wouldn't she have lots of fun with him?"

"Seems as though those two drummers were bothering poor Friday
quite enough."

They heard the little spaniel yelping the moment they opened the
baggage car door.

"The poor 'ittle sing!" cooed Bess, running to the corner where the puppy
was imprisoned. "Oh! how cold it is in here. It would be a little icicle,
so it would be, in a little while."

"Let's see where he's going, and whom he belongs to," Mr. Carter said.
"I'll have to make a note of this, and so will Jim, the baggage-man. You
want to take good care of this little tyke, for the railroad is
responsible for him while he is in transit."

He stooped down and brought his light to bear upon the tag wired to the
top of the crate. "Ravell Bulson, Jr., Owneyville, Illinois," he read
aloud, making a note of it in his book.

"Oh!" ejaculated Nan.

"Oh!" repeated Bess.

Then both together the chums gasped: "That fat man!"

"Hullo!" observed the conductor, slipping the toggles out of the hasp,