The agitated transit of Mr. Lewis Copewell through the anteroom of the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow created a certain stir. With all the lawless magnificence of a comet that runs amuck through the heavens, he burst upon the somewhat promiscuous assemblage already seated there. The assemblage sat in dumb and patient expectancy. Quite obviously it was a waiting-list, already weary with enforced procrastination. Its many eyes were anxiously focussed on the door that sequestered the great man in the aloofness of his sanctum.
A young woman gazed across her typewriter at the supplicants seeking audience, with a calm hauteur which seemed to say, “Wait, varlets, wait! The great do not hurry.”
They returned her gaze sullenly but in silence. None ventured to penetrate beyond her desk to the portal forbiddingly placarded, “Private.” None, that is, until Mr. Copewell arrived.
“Where’s Aleck?” demanded that gentleman, mopping his perspiring brow with a silk handkerchief. “I want to see him quick!”
The young woman looked up blankly. She knew that Mr. Copewell and her employer were, in their private capacities, on terms of intimacy, but duty is duty, and law is impartial. Many persons wanted to see him quick. Since the triumph of civic reform had converted the attorney who paid her salary from a mere Aleck, who was even as other Alecks, into Alexander the Great, she felt that his friends in private life must adapt themselves to the altered condition of affairs.
Accordingly her reply came with frigid dignity. “Mr. Burrow instructed that he was not to be, on any account, interrupted.”
“Huh?” Into Mr. Copewell’s surprised voice crept the raucous note that the poet describes as “like the growl of the fierce watch-dog.”
“Huh?”
The young woman became glacial. “Mr. Burrow can’t see you.”
The glance which Mr. Copewell bent on this deterring female for a moment threatened to thaw her cold reserve into hot confusion. The waiting assemblage shuffled its feet, scenting war.
At the same moment the private door swung open and Mr. Burrow himself stood on the threshold. At the sight of him several gentlemen who were patriotically willing to serve their city in the police and fire departments came respectfully to their feet. One contractor, who had for sale a new paving-block, saluted in military fashion. Mr. Lewis Copewell took a belligerent stride toward the door as though he meant to win through by force of assault.
But Mr. Burrow made violence unnecessary. His smile revealed a welcoming row of teeth, which in modern America means “dee-lighted.”
“Trot right in, old chap,” he supplemented.
The young woman looked crestfallen. She felt that her chief had failed to hold up her hands in the stern requirements of discipline.
“Good morning, everybody!” rushed on Mr. Burrow, with a genial wave of his hand and a smile of benediction for the waiting minions. This second Alexander the Great knew that you can abuse a man’s patience if you are a person of importance and smile blandly enough. Some of the Cæsars could even massacre and remain popular—but they had to smile very winningly. “Terribly busy! Must make all interviews brief this morning,” went on the new dictator. “Must get over to the City Hall!” Then in view of congealing acidity on the visages of three newspaper men, he added, since no man is great enough to offend a reporter: “I’ll have a big story for you boys to-morrow. You know I’m your friend.” He swept Mr. Copewell into the private office and the door slammed on his smile.
“I haf been sedding here for an hour alretty,” confided Alderman Grotz to his next neighbor. The Alderman’s heavy lids blinked with a stolid, bovine disapproval. “Der more I vait, der more I do not see him. Id iss nod right!” Alderman Grotz was reported to carry the lager and bratwurst vote about in the pocket of his ample, plaid waistcoat. Such discrimination against him was venturesome politics.
“That guy that went in there ain’t like us,” explained Tommy Deveran, whose florid oratory had been the machine’s prized asset until the drift of political straws had guided him toward reform. “He wears silk half-hose where you an’ me wears cotton socks. This here is a classy, high-brow administration. Myself not bein’ no cotillion-leader, I’m goin’ to beat it!” The Hon. Thomas rose and beat it in all the majesty of affronted dignity.
Inside, Mr. Copewell threw his hat and stick on the desk and himself into a chair. He commenced to speak and suddenly stopped. A fine flow of high-pressure language was arrested by the sight of Chief-of-Police Swager, sitting just across the room. The Chief rose and took up his gold-trimmed cap. The new administration had added to the pulchritude of its police officials by more jaunty uniforms. The Colonel felt conscious of a distinguished and military bearing.
“I’m going to shift Captain McGarvey from the Tenderloin—if you don’t object,” he announced.
Mr. Burrow did not object. He did not know who Captain McGarvey was, but that fact he did not mention. “What for, Chief, what for?” he inquired brightly. His air was that of a field-marshal for whom no little thing is too small to merit consideration.
“Well,” thoughtfully pursued Colonel Swager, “I doubt if he’s on the level, though I haven’t got him dead to rights yet—can’t prefer charges. McGarvey’s a machine hold-over and he’s likely to be a little blind in one eye where some of the thieves and yeggs that used to buy protection are concerned. ‘Rat’ Connors was seen last night, down at Corkhill’s place. You know ‘Rat’ Connors?”
Mr. Burrow had not that honor. The name was not on the membership books of his clubs. “Let’s see—” he repeated carefully, “Rat Connors, Rat Connors. I don’t, at the moment, seem to place him.”
“Second-story man, drum-snuffer, stone-pincher, porch-climber—general all-round expert,” illuminatingly itemized the Chief, “variously wanted for a large assortment of felonies. McGarvey ought to have ditched him.”
“Ah, yes, quite so,” agreed Mr. Burrow. Mr. Copewell petulantly shifted in his chair. These matters seemed to him extremely trivial in view of his own more engrossing affairs.
“This Connors party,” enlarged the Chief, halting a moment by the door and inspecting with pride the gold oak-leaves that went around his cap like a garland of greatness, “he’s a solemn little runt with one front tooth broke and one finger gone off the left hand. He’s got straight black hair and a face like a rat. He looks like a half-witted kid, but he’s there with the goods.”
Mr. Burrow nodded. “Go right after him, Chief,” he authorized, “I give you carte blanche.”
Exit the Chief, and in his wake appears at the door the accusing face of the young woman stenographer.
“Alderman Grotz insists——” she began.
“Impossible!” sighed Mr. Burrow dropping into an easy chair. “I’m rushed to death just now.” He gazed off across the roofs and searched his pockets for a cigarette. “Let him wait—let ’em all wait,” he murmured restfully. “That’s good politics.” Then, turning to Copewell, whose frantic pacing of the floor disturbed his composure, he demanded:
“What’s your trouble?”
“Trouble!” exploded the visitor. “Trouble! Why it’s plural multiplied by many, then squared and cubed and——”
“Well, just for a starter, give us one or two and build up from that,” suggested Mr. Burrow placidly. “Another girl, I’ll bet.”
“Another girl!” snorted Mr. Copewell. “There isn’t any other girl! All the rest are counterfeits! There never was but one girl, and I’m going to lose her!” This with deep stress of tragedy. “You must help me.”
“Certainly, I’ll help you.” Mr. Burrow waved his cigarette with airy assurance. “But what’s the matter? Can’t you lose her yourself?”
On the facetious and Honorable Alexander Mr. Copewell permitted the withering blight of his scorn to beat for one awful moment in silence, then he proceeded to enlighten. “I’ve got to steal this girl, or it’s all off. You’ve got to help steal her!”
Mr. Burrow appeared shocked. “But my dear lad,” he demurred, “I’m supervising a police force and a city administration in the interests of Righteousness with a large R. I doubt if it would be just exactly appropriate for me to go into the girl-stealing business on the side.”
“All politicians steal,” dogmatized Mr. Copewell, who had failed to be properly impressed with the piety of the new administration. “It’s time you were learning your new trade.”
“If it comes to that,” explained Mr. Burrow with a smile, “I have subordinates who——”
“I tell you this is serious!” interrupted the other tempestuously. “It’s desperate!”
“I’m very —— busy,” evasively suggested the new political power.
“If you’re too —— busy to help an old friend who needs you,” stormed Mr. Copewell, “you can eternally go to ——”
“Hold on! Hold on!” placated the other before Mr. Copewell had enjoyed the opportunity of designating the locality to which Mr. Burrow had his permission to go. “I merely meant to point out that when you want something done, it is well to go to a busy man. The other kind never have time.”
Mr. Copewell crossed and stood tensely before Mr. Burrow. When he spoke it was with the hushed voice of a man who divulges an unthinkable conspiracy:
“They are going to send her to Europe!”
“You don’t tell me?” observed Mr. Burrow pleasantly. “Well, what’s the matter with Europe?”
Mr. Copewell looked as much astonished as though he had been suddenly called on for proof that Purgatory is not pleasant in August. His voice almost broke.
“They are sending her—so that she may forget me!”
“You can send a girl to Europe,” reassured his friend, “but you can’t make her—sane.”
“They don’t have to make her sane—she is perfectly sane now!” retorted Lewis with commendable heat.
“Then why,” inquired the lawyer logically, “should it be necessary to send her to Europe?”
“It’s not necessary. It’s hideous!” Emotion strangled Mr. Copewell. “They are packing her off—because she loves me!”
“Oh!” Mr. Burrow’s voice was apologetic. “I thought you said she was sane.”
Mr. Copewell’s reply may be omitted. In fact the Editor insists upon its being omitted. The following is an inadequate indication of its tenor: “——!——!!——!!!——!!!!——!!!!!”
“Going to send her to Europe,” mused Mr. Burrow as though he had not heard. Then he inquiringly raised his brows and added, “Who?”
“Who? What?” repeated Mr. Copewell, bewildered.
“Who are they going to send to Europe?”
“You are insufferable! That’s precisely what I’ve been telling you—the One Girl—Mary, of course—Mary Asheton.”
The Honorable Alexander Hamilton spoke soothingly: “You just said the only lady in the world. You didn’t say which only one. Statistics show that in America alone there are perhaps twenty millions.”
“Mary!” breathed Mr. Copewell with fervor.
“‘Mary is a grand old name,’” recitatively acknowledged Mr. Burrow. “Who objects to this match between you and this young person, Mary?”
“Her family—fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts—everybody like that.”
“Then I gather from your somewhat disjointed statement,” Mr. Burrow summarized with concise, court-room clarity, “that the situation is this: It is practically a unanimous verdict that the marriage is undesirable, ill-advised and impossible.”
“On the contrary, both Mary and I know——”
Mr. Burrow raised a deprecating hand and interrupted. “I said practically unanimous. I admit, of course, that you and the young woman hold dissenting opinions. There is always a minority report.”
“I’m not trying to marry the majority. I’m not a Turk.”
“How long have you known this particular Only One?”
“A year.”
“How long an interval elapsed between introduction and proposal?”
“A month.”
Mr. Burrow groaned.
“Abject surrender! No brave defense of your heart, no decently stern resistance! Why, Stoessel held Port Arthur a hundred days and more—though he was hungry!” After a momentary pause he inquired sternly, “If you proposed eleven months ago, why in thunder are you just now planning this abduction?”
Mr. Copewell blushed. “It took her some time to decide.”
“It didn’t take you long, poor creature!” Mr. Burrow studied a stick of sealing-wax with a judicially wrinkled brow. “Mind you,” he generously acceded, “I’m not censuring the young woman. It’s the female vocation to lure men. Can’t blame ’em. Can’t blame spiders for weaving filmy traps, but I am very, very sorry for flies and fools that rush in where angels fear the web.”
“I don’t need your sympathy. It’s merely crass ignorance,” snapped Mr. Copewell. “If you only knew her!”
“I don’t,” snapped Mr. Burrow back at him, “but I know her sex. I know that women differ from other birds of prey in only one particular and the distinction is in favor of the other birds of prey.”
“That’s a lie, of course, but I haven’t time to argue it.”
“The difference is,” calmly pursued Mr. Burrow, “that the others wear their own feathers. Women wear those of the others.”
The office door opened. The head of the young woman stenographer appeared. Her voice was chilling. “Alderman Grotz says——”
“Say to Mr. Grotz,” replied the Hon. Alexander Hamilton in a voice loud enough to carry, “that it is very good of him to wait. If he’ll indulge me—just ten minutes longer——” His voice trailed off ingratiatingly as the door closed, and he turned again on his visitor. “No woman in the world could reduce me to so maudlin a condition in a month! No, nor in a century. Now, having warned you in behalf of friendship, I’m entirely ready to help you ruin yourself. What’s the idea?”
This was the moment for which Mr. Copewell had waited. He began with promptness.
“Mary has telephoned me. She lives in Perryville, two hundred and fifty miles away. They won’t let me see her.”
“They won’t let him see her!” commiserated Mr. Burrow with melancholy.
“This trip to Europe was planned on the spur of the moment. It was meant to surprise us. It did. She starts to-morrow, unless——”
“Unless you interfere to-day,” prompted Mr. Burrow. Mr. Copewell became intense. “She slipped away from home when she learned it, and we planned it all by ’phone. I can’t go to Perryville—they would watch us both. I must stay here till the last minute and establish an alibi. Mary leaves there this evening on the train that reaches here about midnight, which makes no regular stops between. She starts unaccompanied, but is to be met at the station here in Mercerville by her aunt, Mrs. Stone, who is to chaperone the European trip. It is to be strictly and personally conducted.”
“I know Mrs. Stone,” grinned Mr. Burrow. “I can recommend her as a reliable duenna.”
“But I leave here on a train that starts west at the same time hers starts east. Those trains pass each other about half-way. Both are through expresses and neither makes any regular stop between Mercerville and Perryville.”
“I am following you.” Once the plan involved action, the Hon. Alexander Hamilton Burrow became interested.
“I have got, quite secretly of course, an order from the train-despatcher’s office. In pursuance, my train stops at Jaffa Junction, which it reaches at ten o’clock to-night. Her train also stops at Jaffa Junction, forty minutes later. We both disembark. When aunty goes to the Mercerville station there will be no Mary there!”
“Almost you had persuaded me,” said Mr. Burrow sadly, “but if any additional shred of evidence were necessary to establish the lunacy of this enterprise, it is the selection of Jaffa Junction as an objective point for elopement. Were you ever in Jaffa Junction? A tank, a post-office and a streak of mud!”
“It may lack certain advantages,” defended Mr. Copewell, “but it is a strategic position. You don’t seem to grasp the strenuousness of this undertaking—or the peril. Mary is sent across the ocean on twenty-four hours’ notice. She is put on the train at Perryville by her family. The train does not, so it is presumed, stop till it reaches here. Here a grim relentless aunt catches her on the fly and keeps her bouncing! Good Heavens, man, the only chance I have is train-robbery in between—and Jaffa Junction is gloriously in between!”
“What part do I play in this praiseworthy enterprise? Do you want my police to lock aunty up, so that she can’t telephone to mama?”
“Worse than that. When we drop off that train at Jaffa Junction, unless we have some way to beat it quick, our last predicament will be worse than our first. We will need an automobile and a trustworthy chauffeur. He can also be best man, and officiate at swearing to things when we get the license. You and your six-cylinder car have been elected.”
“Are you quite sure,” inquired Mr. Burrow in a chastened voice, “that you don’t overestimate my merits?”
“I am willing to give you a try,” was the generous response. “It would be nice and considerate if we could get it all finished up in time to wire aunty that we are perfectly well married before she grows hysterical about Mary. Mary is very fond of her family and would appreciate a little attention like that.”
“And have you considered the time it takes to drive one hundred and twenty miles over those infernal, hog-backed roads?” queried Mr. Burrow with suspicious politeness.
“Really, I can’t say, but it’s only ten o’clock now. You can start as soon as you’re ready, you know. You have about thirteen hours.”
“I salaam before your unparalleled nerve! Do you realize that I have public duties to perform?”
Mr. Copewell shrugged his shoulders.
The stenographer’s brown head was thrust into the door.
“Alderman Grotz says——” she began.
“Send him right in,” exclaimed Mr. Burrow energetically. “Ah, Mr. Grotz, I’m very sorry indeed to have kept you waiting! Miss Farrish, tell the other gentlemen I have just received urgent news that will call me out of town until to-morrow. ’Phone over to the City Hall and make my apologies to the Mayor. Call up the garage and have my car ready for a long trip in a half-hour; telephone to my rooms and have my man pack a suit-case and rush it over to the garage. Let’s see—yes, I believe that’s all, thank you.”
The allegation that Love laughs at locksmiths has become more generally accepted than verity warrants. In point of fact the locksmith has never been altogether without the honors of war, and during the last century or two he has made commendable progress in the matter of bolts and tumblers and burglar-proof devices.
Love was supervising the packing of Mary Asheton’s steamer-trunks and was particularly interested in the single suit-case surreptiously intended for the Jaffa Junction trousseau. Love giggled as he looked on, but the giggle was rather hysterical. “He likes that black gown,” said Mary, alone in her room with Love. “I wore it the evening he proposed the last time—no, it was the third from the last time.”
The small god, Love, approved of Mary. Her red-brown hair, hanging in braids, was very thick and long. About her temples were soft, tendril-like curls of the variety that is most valuable to Love in his business, because they are more enmeshing and binding than some of the other links he is supposed to forge with the aid of his stout smith, Hymen. He approved of her deep violet eyes, liquid with the electric potency of personality. He approved of her willowy slenderness and the grace of her carriage.
Love made an inventory of these assets, for like Napoleon Bonaparte he was arraying his forces against all Europe. As he realized the enormity of the proposition he sternly set his chubby features and clasped his hands at his back in a truly Corsican attitude. There was no room in the suit-case for his favorite gown! Mary Asheton sighed deeply as she acknowledged it. She felt that, in the unfortunate matter of paucity of raiment, the late Miss Flora McFlimsy of Madison Square had nothing on her.
There was a hazardous point ahead which the god was gravely considering. Mary would be entrusted to the personal care of the conductor, and that functionary might feel warranted in asking questions when his fair young charge desired to leave the train late at night, unchaperoned and unescorted. Mary was thinking of that, too. Now if “Captain” McDonald was in command of this run, all might yet be well. “Captain” McDonald knew her very well and liked her very well and was gifted with susceptibility and kindliness. But if “Captain” Fallow was in charge, peril loomed large ahead.
“Captain” Fallow spelled Duty with heavy, black, capital letters. Had he lived in the old Salem days, his hymn-singing basso would have boomed loud and devout over all lesser sounds whensoever there was a scold-ducking or a witch-burning. Mary had never run away with a man before. She felt poignantly sensible of her inexperience. The fact that she was running away with an absent man made it even harder.
Finally, she was on the train. Looking through dark windows she found herself taking a dark view of life. She was frightened. If a woman is not frightened on her first elopement, she is likely to be unfeminine. Presently the conductor came and dropped to the arm of the next chair. Providentially it was “Captain” McDonald.
“So you’re going to take a tour, Miss Mary?” was his original remark.
Mary smiled. She wanted to cry, but she had to win the “Captain,” and she had found that her smile was usually an effective way to begin. If that failed, she could cry later.
“You know, Miss Mary,” the conductor’s eyes grew reflective, “I’ve thought now and again it’s strange you don’t get married.” He hastened to add with gallantry, “I’m sure it ain’t for lack of opportunity.”
Mary gasped, then she leaned forward and laid her hand on the conductor’s arm.
“Are you a really-truly friend of mine?” she demanded in a catchy, half-sobbing voice.
“Any time you ain’t got a ticket you can ride with me,” the official assured her. “But I guess you’ll marry one of them markeeses or dooks and after that you’ll ride on them dinky European trains with tin engines.”
There are times when good men swear, merely because polite language fails of forcefulness. At such crises vigorous young women, being denied that form of superlative, have recourse to slang.
“You’ve got another guess coming,” said Mary stoutly.
“I’m pleased to hear you say so,” commended “Captain” McDonald. “There’s plenty of good young men in America.”
“I’m—I’m going to marry the best of them to-night,” confided Mary. “I’m running away this very minute! He’s going to meet me at Jaffa Junction!”
The trainman’s face clouded dubiously. The girl’s heart began beating panic time. The dice of Fate were rolling.
“Your folks don’t know about this?” he inquired.
She shook her head. “They—they drove me to it!”
“Who’s your young man?” asked the “Captain.” She informed him.
“Captain” McDonald sat pondering inscrutably for a long while. The girl’s breast heaved convulsively in suspense. The small god stood by in Napoleonic posture, but whether it was the posture of Austerlitz or Waterloo he did not himself know.
“I don’t see nothing the matter with Mr. Copewell, ma’am,” the man at last adjudicated, “but I promised to see you safe to Mercerville. It’s apt to look kind of careless-like to lose a young lady that’s put in your charge.”
“But I’m of age!”
The conductor’s face brightened. It was a new situation and he was willing to avail himself of technical defenses. “Then I guess you can do what you like, but I wish you hadn’t told me in advance.”
“I was afraid,” naïvely explained Mary Asheton, “you wouldn’t let me get off at Jaffa Junction.”
Again the train director thought deeply. Finally he announced himself. “I’m ordered to stop my train at Jaffa Junction. I don’t know who gets off there, see? But the brakeman will open up the vestibule door and—may you never regret it, ma’am!”
While these matters were transpiring, the sister express was rushing west. On the west-bound train “Captain” Fallow chanced to be in command, and “Captain” Fallow was peeved. Sundry irritating delays had marred his run from Pittsburg. His firemen had been hefting coal into the engine’s cavernous maw in a Titanic effort to mend the time-losses. The locomotive had been roaring along with a streaming wake of black smoke lying level from its stack. At Mercerville only twenty minutes were left standing in the way of a perfect score, and at Mercerville the conductor had received orders to stop at an ungodly and forlorn tank-town in the midst of emptiness, known by the opprobrious name of Jaffa Junction!
“Captain” Fallow was fully prepared to be irascible with the Jaffa Junction party. Accordingly, when he discovered Mr. Lewis Copewell in the last seat of the last coach he eyed him without enthusiasm.
“I believe, Captain,” commented Mr. Copewell pleasantly, “you have instructions to drop me at Jaffa Junction?”
The “Captain’s” glance became flinty.
“So you are that Jaffa Junction party?” The manner of saying it indicated that the designation carried black opprobrium. Mr. Copewell nodded complacently. “Captain” Fallow’s stern visage became more granite-like.
“My train is twenty minutes late now,” he accused, “and that jay town is one of them places where a lot of lame old ladies tries to board the train every time you stop there. It takes a Jaffa Junction prominent citizen five minutes to climb into a coach!” Mr. Copewell politely attempted to simulate an interest in the characteristics of Jaffa Junction’s prominent citizens. “Indeed?” he said.
“Captain” Fallow went on curtly. “I ask you as a favor to hop off quick when we get there. I’ll have the rear vestibule open and you can fly out as soon as you feel the train slowing down. Your place will be our only stop this side of Perryville, see? If you can jump down without our coming to a dead stop, it will save time.”
Mr. Copewell smiled. “My dear Captain,” he reassured, “I hold various championships for getting off trains. To-night I mean to break all my past records. I’m in a hurry myself.”
“Captain” Fallow’s face softened. “Remember,” he emphasized, “first stop is your destination.”
In view of the fact that he was on his way to meet the one lady of his heart and to foil Fate and Family, Mr. Copewell might have been presumed to be wide awake. In point of actuality, the reverse was true.
Last night, anxiety and indignation had murdered sleep. To-day, action and preparation had assaulted his vitality. Now, with success at his elbow, a delightful languor stole upon him. Gradually his rosy dreams became rosier, more somnolent! His head fell on his chest. Behold, the bridegroom fell snoring!
Some time later the conductor passed through the train and, arriving at the front vestibule of the front coach, made a discovery.
There, crouching very modestly in the shaded corner next to the rear end of the baggage-car, was a somewhat undersized youth with straight, black hair and an expression of innocence which somehow did not seem to sit naturally on his rat-like countenance.
The conductor eyed him accusingly. “Where’s your ticket?” he inquired without preamble.
The youth smiled with a disarming candor.
“Honest, pal,” he confided, “you kin search me! I was just goin’ through me clothes fer it when you come out. I was just sayin’ ter meself, ‘Son,’ says I, ‘where in —— is dat ducket?’”
“Ducket, eh!” repeated “Captain” Fallow. There was a pitiless, inquisitorial note in his voice, which the young man construed as ominous.
The young man bit his lip in annoyance. It was borne in upon him that he had made a most unfortunate choice of words. In police glossaries the term “ducket” is defined as thief and hobo vernacular for a railroad-ticket.
“You come up front with me,” suggested the conductor, pushing the youth ahead of him. In the baggage-coach ahead Mr. “Rat” Connors, for it was none other than he, was treated to a very creditable amateur production of the Third Degree. But Mr. Connors had made his one mistake and they wrung from him no further self-incrimination. He was unaccustomed to the ways of travel, he said, because he had to stay at home and work very hard to support a widowed mother and several small brothers and sisters. He had lost his ticket. He had no more money. He was sorry, extremely sorry—but what could he do?
He could get off, the conductor assured him, and to emphasize the suggestion he reached for the cord and signalled to the engineer. Mr. Connors stood supinely near the open door of the baggage-coach while the baggage-man and a brakeman ranged themselves at his back to assist him in alighting.
The train slowed down with a jarring wrench which startled Mr. Copewell out of a halcyon dream into a disturbed sense of being almost too late. Wildly seizing his hat and grip, he made a lunge through the open vestibule door. It was a highly creditable lunge. It carried him from a flat-footed nap out into the darkness in something like two seconds and a quarter.
He was not yet really awake. He acted subconsciously and in obedience to a sense of imperative haste. When he landed, blinking, on the side of the track and saw about him, instead of village lights, only inky silhouettes of the forest primeval, he felt that he had made a mistake. Already the tail-lights were receding. Mr. Copewell rubbed his eyes and inquired of his subjective self whether he were still dreaming. His subjective self said “No.” Thereupon Mr. Copewell sprinted after the tail-lights. Mr. Copewell was going some, but the shriek of the whistle drowned his shouting, and the rear-end lanterns were whisked like runaway comets from before his outstretched hands. He stumbled on a projecting tie—and the train was gone!
The wedding-guest who beat his breast because his journey to the ceremony was interrupted had no valid cause of complaint as compared with this would-be bridgeroom who stood bereft on the cinders.
He dropped limply to the ground and covered his face with his hands. About him stretched the unbroken gloom of singular blackness. Nowhere was the glimmer of a light. Nowhere, it seemed, was a human habitation. Somewhere a girl was rushing on an express train toward a broken tryst! No one would meet her save a woman-hating best man! What could he do? For a time he did nothing but sit stunned in the darkness, a hundred yards from his abandoned baggage.
It was in just such desperate exigencies as this that chagrined warriors of antiquity were wont to fall upon their swords. Unhappily he had no sword upon which to fall. In the midst of crisis and defeat he sat and strove to evolve out of chaos some bright plan by which he, stranded in juxtaposition to the murmuring pines and the hemlocks, might, in the space of a few minutes, transport himself across an unknown distance and be married at Jaffa Junction.
It has been commented that at the average wedding the bridgeroom has a minor and insignificant rôle. Mr. Copewell had discovered a sure method, in the parlance of theatrical folk, of fattening the part. The male contracting party has only to stay away.
Suddenly he was aroused out of his apathy by the realization that he was not the only living being in that section of rural America. The discovery brought both surprise and comfort. There had drifted to his ears a plaintive singing voice, evidently not far away. The voice was a tenor and it floated through the thick night with the insistent melancholy of a lone minstrel who sings in adversity. Mr. Copewell could quite plainly distinguish the words of the ballad. They were these:
There was a silence, then the voice swelled and grew more melancholy, as though the singer were invoking verse and notes for the voicing of his own piteous plight:
The voice dwelt lingeringly on the final chord, then broke off in a deep-drawn sigh.
Suddenly it flashed on Mr. Copewell that there was need of quick action. For a while the minutes could hardly be too full of action.
The gentleman whose voice Mr. Copewell heard singing beside him in the wilderness was not, himself, without his troubles. Trouble resembles the star in the drama, who comes in various make-ups and reading various lines, but always demanding the center of the stage and claiming the white glare of the spotlight.
Mr. Copewell, longing for the soft voice of the lady of his heart, believed in his soul that no misfortune could equal that of a marriage ruthlessly interrupted by the chance hostility of Fate. Mr. Rat Connors was equally certain that Destiny does her worst when she thwarts a dash for freedom and fortune.
Mr. Rat Connors had more than a bowing acquaintance with Vicissitude, the hope-scuttling Lord of Life. Vicissitude, in its latest guise, had come wearing the mantle of Reform to the city of Mercerville, where rich treasures had heretofore awaited enterprise and where the new régime had blasted prospects. Mr. Connors wished most wishfully that the gentlemen responsible for this spoil-sport amendment of régime were, for two minutes, in his power and that he held in his right hand a serviceable fragment of lead pipe.
Only last night a warning had been given him at Corkhill’s Exchange that it would be most expedient for him to leave town. Corkhill’s Exchange was, in the argot of such as Mr. Connors, “de dump w’ere de woid is passed ter cut loose or lie low.” The word just now was not merely to lie low but to fly far.
“Take it from me, Rat,” the bartender had confided, “an’ beat it! De new Chief ain’t goin’ ter run t’ings on de old plan. De bulls ain’t goin’ ter take de divvy an’ keep d’eir faces shut no more. McGarvey’s due ter get de ax. If you hangs round here, you’ll be ditched an’ settled an’ de key t’rowed away, see? McGarvey tipped dat off hisself, an’ it’s straight. He said de best he could do fer youse guys was ter warn youse ter make quick getaways, see?”
This advice, being interpreted, meant that an end had come to the old régime under which Corkhill’s Exchange had operated as a neutral zone where police and criminals maintained an entente cordiale on a monetary basis. That was the work of the Hon. Alexander Hamilton Burrow and his confréres. It was very inconvenient for Mr. Rat Connors.
So Mr. Connors, being just then short of funds, had planned a double event in the way of a flight and a coup. There was a certain country house near Perryville where the treasure was alluring, and if Mr. Connors could reach it he thought he saw a way to mend his fortunes. It was the journey thither which “Captain” Fallow had frustrated.
But to return to immediate conditions—Mr. Copewell wished to learn the time. He struck a match to consult his watch. Then he groaned again. His watch had stopped! Without knowledge of the hour he was a storm-tossed mariner deprived of a compass. In a rudimentary fashion the paralyzed brain of Mr. Copewell had begun to take up again the task of thought.
Thought had carried him this far. Mary Asheton would necessarily take one of the horns of her dilemma. She would either leave the train at Jaffa Junction, as per program, to find herself at the mercy of a rude and woman-hating man, or she would receive a quick and unsoftened warning from the aforesaid brutal person, in which event she would continue on her way, heartbroken, to aunty and Europe. If she were indeed marooned at Jaffa Junction, the essential thing was to establish communication with that point. Hence, the first step was to find a telephone. If, on the other hand, Burrow had warned her, the one indispensable step was to flag the east-bound train as it passed his own isolated spot.
Without knowledge of time or place he could not risk leaving the track, because he could have no idea when the train might pass. Perhaps this minstrel, whose voice had come to him through the curtain of darkness, might have a watch. Perhaps he might become an ally. Without a lantern Mr. Copewell could not flag the train unless he built a fire. Obviously, therefore, he must kindle a blaze and open negotiations with the unknown singer. Under the sudden stimulus of revivified hope Mr. Copewell became facetious. “Hello, you, Caruso!” he shouted.
Even before Mr. Copewell hailed him Mr. Connors had noted that the man who appeared in the night so near him was dressed too well to be a fellow vagabond. His photographic eyes had recorded this fact when the sputtering match had caught a red reflection on the watch-case with the glint and color of gold. It might have been wiser, reflected Mr. Connors, to have remained silent and slipped up on this gentleman in the official capacity of a thief in the night. His tell-tale song had, however, made that impossible, so he decided upon permitting events to shape them selves. If it came to a crisis, Rat had, in his inside pocket, his “cannister” which was of .38 caliber and dependable.
“Hello yourself, bo!” responded Mr. Connors with affability. “Did you git t’rowed off de dangler, too?”
“I beg your pardon?” inquired Mr. Copewell. It began to dawn on him that this person might after all be an undesirable companion.
“Did yer light on yer neck offen de hurry-up train?” elucidated the other, coming amicably forward and striking a match. The two men regarded each other in the temporary illumination.
“No,” said Mr. Copewell, “I got off by mistake.”
“Same here,” declared Mr. Connors. “De conductor guy made de mistake. De brakeman helped him.”
For a moment Mr. Copewell stood hesitant. Mr. Connors was not just the man he would have selected to assist in retrieving his disastrously threatened life, but there was small choice of collaborators.
“Have you a watch?” he demanded. “Mine has stopped.”
“Sorry,” replied Mr. Connors with a grin. “I loaned me ticker ter a pal.”
Mr. Copewell turned on his heel and began foraging for firewood. Mr. Connors looked on without comment. When the blaze was at last glowing prosperously, its radius of light revealed to him the suit-case which lay near the track a short distance away.
“Now I don’t know you and you don’t know me,” tersely began Mr. Copewell. “It is vitally important to me to telephone to Jaffa Junction. When the Eastern express comes by, it is also important to flag it. Do you know this country? Do you know where there’s a farmhouse?”
Mr. Connors shook his head.
“Neither do I,” went on Mr. Copewell. “Now, whatever you do for me, you get paid for. I can’t be in two places at once and I’m going to hunt for a ’phone. I’ll be back shortly, but if I miss that train I want you to flag it and ask whether Miss Asheton is on board. If she is, you must give the conductor a note for her.”
Mr. Connors was eying the suit-case. He thought the absence of the other man would afford him a better chance to investigate its possible value. “Sure,” was his ready response. “I’d do most anyt’ing fer a pal.”
Mr. Copewell tore a page from his notebook and hastily scribbled this message:
Dearest: Am caught in the Mill of the Inexorable. I can’t explain now. I’ll follow you to Europe and it will only mean a delay. I love you. Reserve judgment and you will understand.
He then plunged into the smothering tangle of the hills. Had he been told that there existed in his State such void and unpeopled wastes, he would, as a patriotic citizen, have resented the charge. He climbed a tree, remembering that all the correspondence courses in woodcraft advise survey from an eminence. The net results were a bark-scraped face, bruised shins and spoiled wedding-clothes. But at last, with a leap of joy, he descried a dim light off to the left. Where there are lights there is humanity, and where there is humanity there may be information—possibly even a telephone.
He had meant to remain close enough to the track to reach it if he heard the train whistle, but this light lured him like a marsh-fire, through briars and over deceptive distances. At last it grew steady and Mr. Copewell went forward at an encouraged trot. A rise of ground confronted him. He rushed across it as though he were charging Fate’s artillery. He did not know that the ridge was in reality the brush-cloaked edge of a steep river-bank, any more than he knew that the light he sought was on the opposite side of the stream. He became apprised of both facts, however, a half-second later, when the ground dropped out from under him and he found himself floundering in cold, deep water.
Handicapped by the weight of his clothes, he made the bank after two or three highly problematical minutes, arriving in the unbeautiful condition of a drenched rat. The ascent of the sticky acclivity contributed a coating of mud. As he turned miserably back he heard the approaching rumble of an express locomotive. Mr. Copewell broke wildly through the thicket toward his fire, half a mile away.
Neither his exterior nor his rate of speed accorded with that staid dignity which should characterize a man going to meet his fair young bride. Mr. Copewell, however, had lost his sense of proportion. He did not care. What he wanted was to get there.
The sound of the oncoming train grew louder. Mr. Copewell attained a higher rate of speed. The sweat poured into his bulging eyes. The rumble grew, gathering into a crescendo, then dropped down the scale of sound with diminuendo. He knew the train had passed. It had not stopped. It had not hesitated. The engineer was getting a good forty-five miles an hour out of his boilers!
As a capstone to his arch of misfortune an outcropping root caught Mr. Copewell’s toe and threw him headlong into a deep cut. It began to look as though, in the question of his marriage, the nays had it. A very definite pain in the chest and shoulder told him that something had broken. He staggered to his feet and went more slowly. A torment in one ankle retarded him—also, there was no further need of hurrying. At the fire he discerned the peacefully recumbent figure of Mr. Connors, his head pillowed on the suit-case.
“Why in —— didn’t you stop that train?” bawled Mr. Copewell in futile frenzy.
“It’s like dis, pal,” confided Mr. Rat Connors placidly. “I just gets t’rowed offen one dangler, see? I ain’t goin’ ter take chances stoppin’ no fliers in places like dis. It ain’t healt’y. Meself, I knows w’en I gets plenty.”
“Didn’t you agree to do it?” screamed Mr. Copewell, choking and sputtering like a cataleptic maniac.
“Sure,” smiled Mr. Connors, “but I loses me noive, see?” He did not add that he had accomplished his real object when he had rifled the suit-case and that his promise had been purely strategic.
Mr. Copewell sank down by the fire. Perhaps it was the shock of the wetting and a broken clavicle. Perhaps it was despair and pain combined. The blood in his temples seemed to be cascading into his eyeballs and flooding his sight with red. Slowly Mr. Copewell crumpled forward in a senseless heap on the stone-ballasted right of way.
Mr. Connors, rolling a cigarette, was startled by the collapse of his vis-à-vis. He rose and went over to investigate. He studied the face and its pallor impressed him. Mr. Rat Connors stood indicted for several dozen felonies. More cities claimed him living than ever claimed Homer dead. The fact that he was at large was sufficient evidence of his criminal efficiency. Yet at times he felt that a career of great promise was seriously handicapped by a tendency toward softheartedness.
Now his hands played over the prostrate body as deftly as though the fingers were experimenting with the combination of a safe. The diagnosis told him that a rib and a collar bone were broken. There might be also other breakages, but these two were patent on a cursory inventory.
“Now if dat ain’t ——,” snarled Mr. Connors, “I’ll eat a goat!”
He sat down and brooded bitterly. He had been booted off a train and had dropped into the company of a stranger. By virtue of helplessness, this stranger became an enforced trust upon the unwilling hands of Mr. Connors until he could be turned over to some one else. Mutual misfortune created a certain tie of brotherhood. Mr. Connors scorned the quitter who abandoned even a chance pal in a state of wounded disability. Every profession has its ethics. There was, however, no ethical objection to robbing the invalid’s pockets. Mr. Connors was a socialist. This man had money. Mr. Connors had none. It was equitable that the extremes of wealth and poverty be leveled. Profound thinkers have enunciated this principle.
Mr. Connors bent over and proceeded to carry into effect the socialistic propaganda by the simple device of searching every pocket. Mr. Copewell had drawn his check that day with a view to meeting the requirements of honeymooning—and honeymooning is an expensive pastime. The eyes of Mr. Rat Connors bulged and glittered in the firelight as he counted bills and made transfers. Then Mr. Connors dragged the prostrate figure farther back into the shadow and arranged it as comfortably as possible on the grass. After that he piled fresh sticks on the blaze.
“Now I’ve got ter find some hoosier ter look after dis guinea,” soliloquized the unwilling custodian. “Gee, but it’s —— to be soft-hearted!” He paused and felt through his coat the thick wad of bills in his pocket. “An’ say, Rat, me son,” he added with deep sorrow, “wid a bun like dat yer could beat it ter de North Pole, too!”
Mr. Connors struck off at random into the night, singing mournfully as he went:
The Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow had been something like two hours in Jaffa Junction. Two hours in Jaffa Junction is more than sufficient for any man. For the Hon. Alexander the night held nothing save the melancholy prospect of seeing a friend abandon himself to the emotional insanity of marriage. For marriage Mr. Burrow had no tolerance. For women he had a supreme contempt. When the train which should have borne his friend whisked through and brought no Copewell, the best man became testy.
Mr. Burrow reflected that this development left him to take charge of an unclaimed lady, whom he did not want. He found the idea disconcerting. Decidedly he must devise some escape. Then an inspirational idea dawned. He would rush up to her Pullman when it arrived. He would shout warningly, “On your way! Your lunatic didn’t come!” That ought to solve the situation very nicely. First, though, he would call up Mercerville and find out what had happened.
Calling up Mercerville from Jaffa Junction proved an undertaking of such magnitude that Mr. Burrow’s grouch ripened slowly into misanthropy before it was accomplished. The telephone exchange, instead of being central in location, seemed to have been placed on the principle of an eruptive hospital in far-away isolation. When at last he got Copewell’s lodgings it was to learn that Copewell had left on the west-bound express.
As the Honorable Mr. Burrow came down the stairs of the telephone exchange the shriek of a train whistle smote discordantly on his ears. The motor proved balky and required a singular amount of cranking. The cranking required a superlative amount of profanity. Altogether the series of petty annoyances spelled delay. The station was quite a distance away and Mr. Burrow proceeded to desecrate the speed-limit, rehearsing as he went, “On your way, young woman! He didn’t come!”
And Miss Asheton, alighting on the station platform, was startled to find it empty. She had expected it to be filled with the welcoming presence of Mr. Copewell.
Her alarm was at once dissipated, however, by the glare of acetylene headlights whirling around the curve of the road some distance away.
The mad speed of the approaching car indicated that it was her own private reception-committee. She set down her suit-case and waited.
“Captain” McDonald also saw the automobile headlights. He knew that automobiles were not indigenous to Jaffa Junction. This one could mean only that Miss Asheton was being properly and enthusiastically met.
A moment later the best man alighted at the station and looked regretfully after the train. He had been too late. Mr. Burrow had not considered the possible effect on Miss Asheton of his contemplated bluntness. It had not mattered. Mr. Burrow had the military mind. The military mind can not pause to consider the feelings of the enemy. Decimation is painful to an army but desirable to the attacking general. The military mind sees and pursues one object. Mr. Burrow’s one object was to rid himself of a superfluous young female. It was the same thing that makes some warriors slay prisoners rather than be burdened with them on the march.
For an appreciable space of time the Hon. Alexander Hamilton Burrow eyed Miss Asheton with icy politeness. She looked back at him inquiringly. There was nothing ardent in the tableau.
“I take it you are the bride-elect?” hazarded the Hon. Alexander.
“Yes.” The man had no idea the monosyllable could be so short. Her voice was so musical that it was altogether too short.
“I’m A. H. Burrow. I’m the best man.”
“Yes, but where is Lewis?” Miss Asheton put the question with a pardonable eagerness. Conversely, her voice conveyed an entire absence of interest in the best man.
“All the weddings I have ever attended,” said Mr. Burrow sententiously, “were marred by some slight hitch or omission. At this one the missing detail seems to be the bridegroom.” Having spoken, he awaited her hysterics.
It happened that Miss Asheton was not the hysterical sort. She merely looked at Mr. Burrow, and Mr. Burrow suddenly felt himself grow microscopic. Also, he was puzzled. This young woman had planned to elope with Mr. Lewis Copewell. That indicated that she must consider Mr. Lewis Copewell a desirable possession. He had just announced, with studied bluntness, that she could not have Mr. Copewell. Why did she not take the cue and weep? He regarded it as axiomatic that women and children cry for what they want.
Yet here before him, in the full glare of the acetylene lamps, she stood eying him like an offended young goddess, precisely as though he were responsible and she meant to punish him. Mr. Burrow had not arranged his battle-front to receive that type of enemy. It dawned upon him that this was a very brave young woman and, although he admitted it reluctantly, a very beautiful young woman.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” she suggested icily, “you might explain more fully. On the whole, I think I have the right to understand.”
Mr. Burrow shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear Miss Asheton,” he began with weak defiance, yet feeling that she had put him on the defensive, “might I remind you that this is not my funer—that is to say, my wedding? All I can learn is that he left Mercerville, and did not arrive here. The question which now suggests itself to me, is this: What are the functions of a best man when there is no marriage?”
The young woman turned away and marched scornfully toward the far end of the platform. It was revealed to Mr. Burrow that if all women could walk like that, and take punishment like that, there would be no room in the world for woman-haters. His objections to marriage could not apply to a union with a deity!
He turned and went over very humbly. “Miss Asheton——” he began.
The girl wheeled with her chin in the air and an angry gleam flashed through the mortified tearfulness of her eyes.
“Will you kindly go away?” she said in a peremptory voice. “I want to think.”
Mr. Burrow skulked back, crestfallen. He sat dismally on the step of his automobile and fanned himself with his cap. He was very busy hating himself.
Afterward she came over, walking very straight, and halted rigidly before him.
“Will you be good enough to take me to a telephone?” she asked.
Mr. Burrow rose with a new alacrity and put out his hand to assist her. She drew carefully away from his touch and opened the tonneau door for herself. Into Mr. Burrow’s self-hatred crept a note of self-pity.
“Won’t you—won’t you sit in front?” he timidly suggested. “It will be easier to talk.”
“It’s not necessary to talk,” the young lady informed him.
The run to the telephone exchange was made in heavy and depressing silence.
“Can’t get Mercerville any more before to-morrow,” enlightened the operator briefly. “Line’s in trouble—somethin’s just busted.”
“Any trains out to-night?” demanded Mr. Burrow.
“All out. Long way out. Nothin’ doin’ until ten-thirty to-morrow mornin’.” Mr. Burrow thought it inconceivably strange that any one could be facetious at such a time.
“Where’s the telegraph operator?” he inquired coldly.
“Gone to the country. Office closed till to-morrow.”
“I suppose there is some sort of hotel,” suggested the even voice of the girl at his elbow. “If you will take me there I sha’n’t trouble you any farther.”
“But—but——” began Mr. Burrow, then he began again. “But—but——”
The girl threw up her head. She even managed to laugh a little. “Yes?” she questioned sweetly. “You’ve said that four times.”
“But—but——” stammered Mr. Burrow again. The Hon. Alexander was usually regarded as a loquacious man.
“I suppose some day—when I get the perspective on it, it will all be rather humorous,” mused Miss Asheton. “It would make a good farce, wouldn’t it? Only now it doesn’t seem exactly funny.”
Mr. Burrow gave up the problem of articulation. He raised the hood of the car and adjusted something. When he came back he appeared to have regained the power of speech.
“Wait a minute,” he said. His hands were greasy, so he procured a bunch of waste from the tool-box and carefully wiped each digit. Having accomplished this task to his satisfaction, he boldly returned and thrust his right out to Miss Asheton.
“I know,” he said, “that I don’t deserve quarter, but you are the gamest sport I ever saw and I want to be able to tell my grandchildren that I once shook hands with you. After which,” he added, “I am going down on my marrow-bones and make my most contrite obeisances.”
Miss Asheton did not this time repudiate the amenities. She smiled forgiveness.
“Why were you so atrociously horrid?” she asked, as though the psychology of his behavior mildly piqued her interest.
“You see, I was a woman-hater,” he explained.
“Oh, are you? How interesting!”
“I am not!” hotly denied Mr. Burrow.
“But you just said——”
“I just said I was. There’s a big difference between saying you were something and saying you are something. Life is a matter of tenses.”
“Oh!”
“Do you know what a woman-hater is?” inquired Mr. Burrow, as the car nosed its way deliberately along Jaffa Junction’s principal esplanade.
“Certainly,” replied Miss Asheton. “It’s a man who thinks he’s a little wiser than other men, and who is, in fact——” she hesitated politely, “—who may be mistaken.”
“It’s a man,” savagely supplemented Mr. Burrow, “who’s such a blank-dashed fool that he glories in his folly! Until ten minutes ago I was one of them.”
Miss Asheton said nothing. It occurred to the Honorable Alexander that she might be thinking of Lewis Copewell. The thought filled him with hot indignation. Who was Lewis Copewell that a goddess, playing truant from Olympus, should trouble her decorative head about him? Thinking of the decorative head, Mr. Burrow turned in his seat to contemplate it. The car veered into the ditch but without casualty. Houses sit along Jaffa Junction’s thoroughfares as Chinese beads are strung—at extended intervals. Illumination is yet in the future. The ways are dark.
Besides, ran Mr. Burrow’s train of thought, if Lewis Copewell wanted her, why wasn’t he on hand to claim her? If he, the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow, was to be dragged scores of miles to act as a human dead-letter office for unclaimed girls, surely he was justified in taking possession in his own distinguished person. The circumstances emancipated him from any Quixotic ideas of loyalty to Lewis Copewell. He turned again to the passenger in the tonneau.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll ditch your car if you keep turning around?” quietly inquired Miss Asheton.
“It’s quite probable,” acknowledged Mr. Burrow. “Perhaps it would be safer for you to sit in front. I’m effervescing with repartee—scintillating with epigram. You need to be amused. It will take your thoughts off of your temporary annoyances and prevent brooding. Brooding is bad.”
“Possibly even that wouldn’t distract my mind,” she ventured.
“Then run the car,” suggested the Honorable Alexander, surrendering his place. “The more you have to do just now, the better for you. The less I have to do, the better I can talk.”
Miss Asheton took the wheel.
The arrangement gave Mr. Burrow the opportunity to study her profile as she watched the road. It occurred to Mr. Burrow that he had hitherto lost much out of life by neglecting to study profiles. Then came the realization that after all this was the only profile in the world.
“Now,” began that gentleman cheerfully, “this little hitch in your plans is not really so fatal as it seems.”
“It’s funny that he didn’t get off the train,” said the girl.
“Yes, it’s so funny that there’s no use trying to explain it,” Mr. Burrow assured her.
“And I don’t know what to do,” she continued.
“I have a perfectly rational and logical plan,” confided her escort. “One, in fact, which I regard as an improvement on the original.”
“What is it?” This somewhat doubtfully. Miss Asheton saw no fault with the previous arrangement.
“Now you came here to get married, didn’t you?”
“That,” she admitted, “was the idea, but——”
“Never give up a purpose,” interrupted Mr. Burrow with a note of steadfast resolve. “You came to get married. Do it!”
“But,” her voice trembled just a little, “but I can’t. How can I?”
“Nothing simpler. Just do as I say.”
She turned her face from the wheel and gazed at him in wonderment. “How? I was on hand. I’m ready—but where’s Lewis?”
“You came here to get married,” insistently repeated Mr. Burrow. “You passed up a trip to Europe and left aunty waiting in Mercerville. I came here to get you married, and passed up a Ninth Ward meeting in Mercerville. That wedding must take place!”
Her eyes gazed out at the road, under brows wrinkled with bewilderment.
Mr. Burrow looked at her a moment in silence, then spoke with great impressiveness.
“A woman owes it to herself to marry the best man obtainable. I am, in my official capacity, the best man. Marry me. I am very much at your service, and it may not be irrelevant to add that I love you.”
The immediate effect of this announcement was that the girl at the wheel threw on the brakes and stopped the car with a jolt which almost sent her suitor carroming through the windshield. Next she turned and sat staring at Mr. Burrow, with an expression of absolute and paralyzed incredulity.
Mr. Burrow felt that he had failed to make himself quite clear. “I concede that it’s a trifle abrupt,” he acknowledged, “but I am essentially a man of action. Some dilatory fools might take a month to discover that without you life is a superfluous by-product.” The Honorable Alexander thought contemptuously of Mr. Copewell. “It is enough for me to see you. Besides, Europe yawns for you, and it’s bad luck to postpone a marriage. Possibly when you know me you’ll like me. If you don’t, I’ll remodel myself according to your specifications.” Phraseology notwithstanding, there was sincerity in Mr. Burrow’s voice.
“It’s very good of you,” said the girl at last, speaking a trifle vaguely. “Your courteous proposal seems to cover every possible point—except one. The one is Lewis Copewell. Really, you know, I didn’t just come here to get married at random!” She started the machine forward again.
“I assure you there’s nothing random about me!” argued the Honorable Alexander with dignity.
She shook her head. “In matrimonial matters,” she told him, “one can’t eliminate the element of personal preference. I still prefer Lewis.”
Mr. Burrows sighed. Even deities, it seemed, had undiscriminating tastes. “This is the hotel,” he said wearily.
The girl looked at the uninviting facade of the building indicated. It suggested the kennel of a dog in very modest circumstances.
“This—a hotel!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” said the man. “It isn’t a very good hotel. The County Judge lives on the next square. He can perform the marriage ceremony, you know, and his house is much nicer. Shall we go on?”
“We will get out here,” said Miss Asheton firmly.
Though it was midnight, it chanced that the hotel office was not completely deserted. Through the open door struggled the yellow glimmer of a coal-oil lamp, and its reek hung offensively on the sultriness. Two drummers, with loosened neck-bands and hanging suspenders, were beguiling the heavy hours with a deck of greasy cards. Dozing in dishabille, sat mine host, his chair propped on two legs against the wall and his snore proclaiming him in the shadow. The arrival of a beautiful woman and a man in motor-togs brought the drummers to their feet with an exclamation which aroused the innkeeper.
That worthy rubbed his eyes and began in a wheezing voice: “I’m afraid it’s goin’ ter be kinder onhandy to take keer of you folks. The house is mighty nigh full up.”
Before Mr. Burrow could reply, one of the drummers rose chivalrously to the occasion.
“The gent and his wife can take my room, if Mr. Sellers, here, don’t mind my doubling up with him.” The drummer had been marooned an entire day in Jaffa Junction. For a glimpse of that face at the breakfast table he would gladly have slept on the roof. Mr. Burrow cleared his throat, but before he could find words, Mr. Sellers graciously declared that he would be much pleased to oblige.
Then, while Miss Asheton stood painfully impersonating the aurora borealis, the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow astounded her with these composed words: “I am sure you gentlemen are both very kind, but if you will pardon me a moment I will consult with—er—with my wife.”
Since the space of the hotel office was limited in scope to something like ten by twenty feet, partly preëmpted by a cigar-counter, the two drummers exchanged glances and rose, with innate delicacy, disappearing into the street. Mine host, prompted by the same latent courtesy, disappeared up the stairs.
Then Miss Asheton turned a whitely angry face on the Honorable Alexander. She could hardly have confronted him more belligerently had she really been his spouse.
“How dared you!”
“My dear young lady,” expostulated Mr. Burrow humbly, “you don’t know Jaffa Junction. You arrive unchaperoned. If I had corrected our Calvinistic host, he would have turned us both out like pariahs.”
“Will you please drive me to Mercerville?”
“Certainly. Direct or—via the County Judge’s?”
“Direct—and fast!” said Miss Asheton with decision.
“Please consider,” urged the Honorable Alexander. “It is now past midnight. Mercerville is ten hours away either by motor or train. It will be a trifle difficult to explain to aunty.”
“It will be a trifle difficult in any event,” sighed Miss Asheton.
“On the contrary. I should not feel called upon to make any explanation whatsoever as to the movements of myself and my wife.” Mr. Burrow spoke with some hauteur.
The young woman ignored the suggestion. “We will go on,” she said.
“The roads are very bad, and one tire is a little weak.”
“We will go on.”
“You are spoiling the most improved elopement that was ever devised,” sighed the Honorable Alexander mournfully. “It breaks my heart to witness such iconoclasm.”
“We will go on,” murmured Miss Asheton mechanically.
One hour and a half later, as the car turned a sharp curve, there came a loud report, a sudden jolt and a long-suffering sigh from Mr. Burrow.
“That,” he said in a voice of deep resignation, “was the rear, left-hand tire, and I should say that as a blow-out there was some class to it.”
When Mr. Rat Connors dropped out of sight over the railroad embankment his ideas of procedure had been somewhat vague. In the United States were some eighty million people. It seemed a fair sporting proposition, and one worth a small bet, that out of that number at least a single individual must have residence in this neighborhood. If he sought hard enough he might find that habitation. Himself, he would have preferred a night’s lodging under the broad and starry skies to a quest of the sort he had undertaken. But the other gentlemen was “in bad” and the tenets of Mr. Rat Connors’ primitive knighthood precluded the possibility of “leavin’ him lay” suffering and unsuccored.
The search was, for a while, futile. The timbered hills stretched unbroken in lines of ragged shadow. It was a knob country, surrendered, even in the narrow valleys, to the crawfish and the crow, save for a few scattered cabin-dwellers who cultivated peach orchards on the sterile slopes of the hills. But at last Mr. Connors came upon a sort of trail which seemed to be the poor relation to a road. Mr. Connors set his feet therein and trudged on with what comfort and companionship he could derive from Jay Gould’s Daughter personified in song.
At last he came upon a point where, through a gap in the timber-line, he saw a dilapidated and almost shapeless bulk etched darkly against the star-punctured sky. Now, disclaiming any intention to speak with aspersion of Mr. Connors, it must be said that his profession made his habits largely nocturnal. Men who operate in darkness share with the cat the power to use their eyes where the honest householder would find himself blind.
To Mr. Connors the well-nigh shapeless mass defined itself into a building, and the erect projection at its top into a modest steeple, proclaiming it a “meeting-house.” A church on a hill, in the middle of the night, offers little encouragement to a man seeking living aid. Toppling smudges of lighter gray flanked its walls, telling of men and women who slept in the enclosure, but these men and women were all dead. The smudges were their gravestones.
The eyes of Mr. Connors went farther back, penetrating the darkness, and discovered a second and more indistinct pile. That might be the parsonage! Mr. Connors halted for reflection. Churches were establishments distinctly out of his line. Parsons were gentlemen engaged in a different, even a hostile, profession. On the other hand, churchmen might be expected to lend an attentive ear to tales of distress.
Mr. Rat Connors turned into the churchyard, shivering instinctively as he passed among the graves. Mr. Connors was a simple soul easily awed by the Great Phenomenon of death. No lights shone from the windows or doors of the house in the rear. At this hour honest folk slept, in that vicinity. Before the house hung a rickety gate, and Mr. Connors had his hand on the latch, when his entire plan of campaign underwent sudden revision.
He had intended entering the gate, proceeding up the grass-grown walk and hammering at the front door. Instead, he went fleetly up the fence, paused on its top only long enough to grasp an over-arching branch, then swung himself precipitately into a convenient tree.
The cause of this sudden change of itinerary remained below, since it is the wise dispensation of Providence that dogs can not climb trees. The Cause, however, in his sudden heat and passion, did not seem willing to admit that Providence had acted wisely in the matter. He gave evidence of a desire to pursue Mr. Connors into the upper branches. It was clear that the Cause was given to violent and hasty prejudices and that Mr. Connors had aroused such a prejudice.
The dog squatted below and leaped into the air. When he alighted he leaped again. Mr. Connors, straddling a limb, the strength of which was not guaranteed, was ready to admit without cavil that the animal was jumping some. The brute seemed gifted with an almost Rooseveltian strenuousness and sincerity. Even in his moments of resting between efforts there was a grim determination in his pose which indicated his intention of remaining until Mr. Connors came down.
For a time he was silent, save for an occasional snarl; then he sent his voice echoing belligerently across the hills. Lord Byron says, “’tis sweet to hear the honest watch-dog’s bay.” Lord Byron was, no doubt, quite sincere in the assertion. It all depends on the point of view. It is safe to assume that Lord B. did not compose that line while clinging to a bending tree-limb with the honest watch-dog baying at the exact spot upon which he would fall if the branch broke.
Something must be done. The force of habit is strong. So often had Mr. Connors found it necessary to cover his movements with a cloak of silence when approaching a dwelling-house in the night time that it did not occur to him for some minutes to shout for help from within. Then he remembered that this time he was not on burglary bent. He lifted his voice in competition with that of the dog and shouted madly.
At last the door of the house opened and a timid female voice inquired who was calling and why he was calling.
“It’s me,” explained Mr. Connors from his perch in the tree. The explanation was candid yet it seemed insufficient.
“Who are you and what are you doing up my tree?” demanded the voice a shade more boldly.
“Is dis your tree?” apologized Mr. Connors with some irony. “I didn’t get no time to ask whose tree it was.”
“What are you doing up there?”
“Ask your dawg,” replied Mr. Connors. “He put me here.”
From the dog came a growl which entirely corroborated Mr. Connors on the point in question.
The slit of light in the door remained just wide enough to permit a shawl-wrapped head to protrude. The dog fell silent. He appeared to recognize that his was now a thinking part, but he relaxed nothing in vigilance of pose. As the parley proceeded he squatted below, ominously alert, a beast couchant waiting his cue to take again the center of the stage. There was a painful pause.
“Say,” suggested Mr. Connors at last, “if you’re skeered ter talk ter me, send out some of the men-folks. I ain’t dangerous. I won’t hurt ’em.”
“The men-folks are all away,” replied the voice, growing timid once more, “and I guess you had better stay where you are till they get home.”
“When are you lookin’ fer ’em back?” inquired Mr. Connors courteously. The branch was made of hard wood and it was a very knotty bit of timber; the length of time he might be required to occupy it was interesting.
The rustic mind runs to loquacity. The woman found herself explaining in more detail than the circumstances required.
“My husband is the minister. My son is the justice of the peace. They have both gone up the river, but the boat is due at the landing in an hour or so—unless it is late. You might as well wait a while and see them.”
Mr. Connors groaned from the depths of his soul. In an hour or so, unless the boat was late!
“Lady,” pleaded Mr. Connors in his most ingratiating voice, “I come here lookin’ fer a doctor, see? W’en a guy goes ter git a doctor, it ain’t right ter butt in an’ stop him. Dat’s de way it looks ter a man up a tree, lady.”
The woman ventured no opinion. She merely closed the door.
“Lady!” shouted Mr. Connors in his most humble and winning manner. “Lady!”
The door opened again.
“Well, what is it?”
“Lady, I come here to git help fer a guy dat’s lyin’ on de railroad track wid a busted slat. He ain’t got nobody ter look after him. If you keeps me up here dere ain’t no tellin’ what’ll happen ter de pore afflicted feller.”
“A man with a busted what?” inquired the lady suspiciously.
“A busted slat,” repeated Mr. Connors. “Dis guy falls down a clift and caves in a few spare-ribs. Dat’s on de level, lady. I ain’t kiddin’ wid yer.”
“You mean the man is wounded?”
“Dat’s it. He’s all in an’ down an’ out.”
“Where—where is this person?” The minister’s wife put the question with preliminary symptoms of relenting. If some one were genuinely in distress, she must probe the facts.
“Right up de railroad about three-quarters of a mile from here.”
The lady was considering. While she did so the beast below made a sound as if licking his chops with the relish of keen anticipation.
“When my husband and son come home,” ruled the woman at last, “they will investigate your story. Of course they may not get home to-night—the boat is usually a few hours late.”
Once more Mr. Connors groaned.
“Meanwhile,” added the lady, “I’ll call off the dog. You can vamoose.”
“T’anks, lady.” Mr. Connors voice was eager.
“But,” continued the warning voice, “the dog will be about all evening, and if you come back——”
“Me come back, lady!” Mr. Connors’ voice trembled with emotion. “Ferget it! Dis is me farewell appearance!”
The lady opened the door a little wider.
“Fido,” she commanded, “come here! Here, Fido! That’s a good little doggie!”
Thirty seconds later Mr. Connors dropped to the ground and disappeared.
Mr. Lewis Copewell resumed consciousness to find himself apparently deserted. With the reawakening of his mental activities came a renewed horror of the situation which engulfed him. He must find a telephone. He struggled to his feet, but while he slept his injuries had been multiplying and his joints stiffening. He breathed with difficulty. Also, he could not walk. One ankle had swollen until his shoe bound it like a vise, and when he stepped forward he fell, with nauseating pain, to the broken rocks.
The following is a true capitulation of the casualties suffered by Mr. Copewell: one broken collar bone; one broken rib; one sprained ankle. Mr. Copewell was not a man of flimsy courage. In order to send a single reassuring word to the lady he loved, he would gladly have waded through blood, but one can not wade successfully through blood on one foot. He could not even walk along a railroad track on one foot. He tried hopping and found it, on the whole, an unsatisfactory means of locomotion. Then Mr. Copewell crawled back to his suit-case and sat down again in despair.
Mr. Lewis Copewell was not astonished that his chance companion should, as it seemed, have abandoned him in his adversity. His meeting with Mr. Connors had been merely casual. Finding himself converted without warning from a voyager bound for the Enchanted Isles where a beauteous maiden awaited him into a wrecked and battered derelict, his course had drifted across that of a second derelict. The second derelict had stood by for a time and offered him some slight aid, then had drifted on, abandoning him to the mercy of winds and tides.
As Mr. Copewell’s harrowed mind dwelt on the analogy of his shipwrecked life he realized that instead of being a friend this black-haired youth was in fact his Nemesis, his evil genius. In the waste places of the sea float dangerous, half-sunken craft that menace the traffic of the ocean lanes. Good ships bear down on these submerged hulks and yawning holes are driven into seaworthy prows. Such a drifting peril was the black-haired youth.
But for him the train would have gone on uninterruptedly to Jaffa Junction, and the hope-laden argosy of Mr. Copewell’s existence would have made its happy port! But for this creature’s perfidy, Mr. Copewell himself would have remained by his fire and flagged the eastern train, at least establishing communication with the civilized world. So he might have snatched victory out of defeat. But now! Now there loomed before him only the ignominy and bitterness of a life spoiled in the making.
In all maritime law it is meet and proper, when a sea-faring man encounters a drifting derelict, to destroy it. Mr. Copewell wished whole-heartedly for an opportunity to dispose of Mr. Connors. Yet, even as he brooded vengefully, Mr. Connors was parleying in his behalf with a clergyman’s wife, while a clergyman’s dog, of unchristian temper, licked his fangs beneath.
Having, by soft speech, won his way out of that parlous plight, Mr. Connors was still wearily trudging the abandoned roads of the vicinity in search of succor. His own state of mind was not joyous. Thanks to Mr. Copewell’s wedding funds the financial phase of the case had been satisfactorily adjusted, but he was still anchored by responsibility until the man whom Fate had thrust upon him could be transferred to other and competent hands. And he was anchored, too close for safety, to the reform-infested city of Mercerville.
With these drear reflections he tramped along until he came upon another road. It seemed a somewhat more traveled way than the one he had left. Possibly it was the almost abandoned stage-road which in ancient days had linked Perryville with the east.
Mr. Connors extracted from his pocket a five-cent piece. Prior to the rifling of Mr. Copewell’s wallet it had been the only buffer between himself and destitution. He could go but one way at once. Heads should guide him east, tails west. Tails it was.
A turn in the highway brought him upon quick discovery. Confronting him at some distance glared twin eyes of bright light, throwing broad, luminous shafts along the road. “Oh, me mother!” ejaculated Mr. Connors in astonishment. “If it ain’t a benzine-buggy!”
Caution being the very soul-breath of Mr. Rat Connors’ policy, he did not approach the stationary motor-car conspicuously by the center of the road. Instead, he dropped into the deep shadow of over-hanging trees and made his way forward with the noiselessness of an Indian on a war-trail. He meant to see what manner of person piloted the car before he presented his demand for first aid to the injured. He advanced on his toes.
The automobile was empty. One of its tail-lights had been removed and placed on the ground. There it blinked, lighting the work of a solitary man who knelt on a folded robe, swearing—also mending a punctured tire. This man was coatless, smeared with grease, covered with dust and panting laboriously. His profanity was voluminous and capable as he struggled with the task of replacing an outer casing on a jacked-up wheel.
Mr. Connors did not at once emerge from the shadow. He knew that this car could not possibly proceed until that tire was replaced and inflated. He meant to ask a favor, and asking a favor carried with it a certain obligation to reciprocate. Mr. Connors had an idea that pumping up the tire of an automobile which looked like a baby battle-ship would involve a distasteful element of manual labor. The evening was hot and, on the whole, it might be as well not to interrupt this gentleman until he was through.
It pleased Mr. Connors to discover, after a careful reconnoiter, that the gentleman was absolutely alone. If he proved obdurate, and a gun-play became necessary, one man would cause less trouble than several. The frayed condition of the gentleman’s temper indicated that he might prove obdurate.
Mr. Connors cautiously drew his “cannister” from his pocket and tested trigger and hammer. If the lone wayfarer quietly accepted the charge of the “guy wid de busted slat” there need be no friction. If he lacked that large sympathy which should make him a willing rescuer, then he must have philanthropy thrust upon him. Mr. Connors meant to thrust it with the pistol. So he gave thanks that this was not a party, nor a couple, but only an unaccompanied chauffeur.
When the injured man should be safely stowed in the tonneau the trusteeship of Mr. Connors would terminate.
Then what? Life has its business exigencies even for those of us who are not materialists. Men who tour in motor-cars may be assumed to carry money. Why not first impress the gentleman into service and then relieve him of his valuables? Why should the doctrine of socialism apply as to the man who lay wounded and not as to this one who drove an automobile?
The man in the road rose with a sigh of relief. He stretched himself, adjusted the pump and bent to his labor again. Mr. Connors sat watching. At last that too was done. The lone motorist put away his tools and turned wearily. Apparently the sight of the car fatigued him.
As he did this Mr. Connors stepped out of the shadow and placed the muzzle of his revolver in impressive juxtaposition with the gentleman’s face. The gentleman had fancied himself alone. The discovery that he had been mistaken surprised him. It startled him.
“Let’s see you stretch your arms up high,” suggested Mr. Connors. The gentleman obligingly and promptly followed the suggestion.
“What is this, if I may ask?” he inquired. “Highway robbery?”
“Some of it is,” Mr. Connors assured him pleasantly, “an’ some of it’s ambulance service.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you,” admitted the traveler.
“Dat’s all right. You will foller me in about t’ree minutes,” replied Mr. Connors. “But before dat let’s see w’at youse got in yer clothes.”
The motorist offered no verbal protest. When one looks down a gun-barrel at one A. M. in a lonely road, silence is eighteen karat fine. This highwayman was carefully keeping a position just too far away for a clinch. At that distance the pistol gave him priority of rank and entitled him to issue orders.
“Get over dere in de light an’ turn your pockets out!” directed Mr. Connors. “T’row everyt’ing down here by me feet. If youse got a gun in yer clothes I wants ter see it come out wid the muzzle pointed de oder way! See?”
The gentleman saw. “I haven’t a gun,” he said.
“An’,” pursued Mr. Connors succinctly, “let’s be on de level wid each oder. Don’t let’s have no holdin’ back. I wants ter see de linin’s of dem pockets hangin’ outside. You looks prettier dat way.”
For a moment there was complete silence, while pocket contents showered on the grass at Mr. Connors’ feet. Mr. Connors secured for himself the gentleman’s coat, which hung over the tonneau door.
There is a distinction between tribute-levy and vandalism. Mr. Connors left letters and papers undisturbed, taking only currency and articles of intrinsic value.
Then, as they stood, with Mr. Connors unostentatiously in the shadow and the other gentleman in the full glare of the acetylene lamps, hands high and his pockets inverted, they heard a somewhat startled exclamation in the road. A young woman emerged suddenly from behind the car, carrying a bucket of water. The tableau had not greeted her eyes until she reached a point where the screening framework ceased to screen. Then it appeared to interest her greatly.
“Lady,” said Mr. Connors steadily, the pistol muzzle never wavering, “or ladies an’ gents, if dere’s a bunch of youse—please come round here an’ get in line an’ put your hands up. If anybody makes a false move, I croaks dis gent, an’ dat goes, see?”
The lady came forward and took up her station by the side of the man. In order to raise her hands she had to set down the canvas bucket with which she was burdened.
Standing in the acetylene spotlight the young woman struck Mr. Connors as supremely beautiful. He deplored the necessity of keeping her in a prisoner’s attitude and he admired the calm with which she endured the compulsion. Her eyes even seemed to be dancing a trifle as she looked at the somewhat abject Mr. Burrow.
“Please, Mr. Highwayman,” she naïvely requested, “would you mind if I poured some water into the radiator?” She added reassuringly: “It will keep both hands quite busy. The machine can’t go on until we do that, you know, and we’d like to get home—when you are entirely through with us.”
Mr. Connors considered the proposition.
“Go as far as yer like, lady,” he assented at last. “But let dis gent keep close ernuff fer me ter watch youse both. If his hands comes down, I’m afraid I’ll have to hurt somebody, see?”
As the young woman lifted the full bucket with a surprising strength for such slender arms, the gentleman assured her that he regretted his inability to assist. The young lady laughed.
“Dat will be about all fer dis part of de job,” said Mr. Connors. “Now fer the ambulance.”
“The what?” questioned the young woman.
“I’se sorry ter trouble yer, lady,” apologized Mr. Connors, “but it’s like dis: Dere’s a guy up de railroad track w’at’s got a busted slat. I’se got ter borrow your benzine-buggy ter take him ter a doctor.”
“Now see here, you infernal pirate!” The gentleman took one belligerent step forward and halted abruptly as he recognized how close it brought him to the ominous muzzle. “You’re asking too much!”
“Me?” questioned Mr. Connors in an injured tone. “I ain’t askin’ nothin’. I’m tellin’ yer w’at I wants done, an’ yer don’t need ter git fresh about it, see?”
“Is there really an injured man? Is this true?” asked the lady. Evidently she was willing to be reasonable.
“Honest ter Gawd, lady!” Mr. Connors spoke earnestly and his eyes wore their frankest appeal. “Dis guy is liable ter croak if he don’t git a doctor. He’s a pore skate. Meself, I don’t know him personally, but I’se sorry fer him.”
“Some disreputable drunk!” growled the gentleman savagely. “Some contemptible hobo like this man here.”
“It occurs to me,” suggested the young woman in a level voice, “that up to this point you have been very obedient to this person you call a contemptible hobo. At all events I’m not going to leave an injured man by the roadside. I’m going with this person. Do you care to come along?”
“Oh, he’ll come along all right,” Mr. Connors assured her. “I needs him ter run de car.”
The gentleman’s face went white with anger; then, as he turned his eyes on Mr. Connors, his expression grew quizzical, even amused, and a light of sudden recognition came to his pupils.
“Mr. Rat Connors,” he said with deliberate courtesy of address, “I congratulate myself that I have fallen under the bow and spear of so distinguished a crook as yourself. I retract the ‘contemptible hobo.’ I have just recognized you.”
“Mr. High-Brow Reformer Burrow,” replied Mr. Connors with instant promptness, “t’anks fer dem kind woids.”
“May I inquire,” purred Mr. Burrow, “how you knew me?”
“After you, after you!” returned the young gentleman modestly. “How did yer git hep ter me?”
“You see,” explained the Honorable Alexander suavely, “the Chief of Police was speaking of you this morning. He had a good deal to say about you.”
Mr. Connors grinned, as one whose greatness has been duly recognized.
“Will yer give me best ter de Chief? Will yer tell ’im I’m well an’ doin’ business an’ I hopes he’s de same?”
“I shall be honored to do so,” declared the Honorable Alexander gravely. “I shall also look forward with pleasure to a meeting when all three of us shall be present—you, the Chief and I. But you haven’t told me how you came to recognize me.”
Mr. Connors smiled broadly.
“Yer name was printed in gold letters on yer pocket-book—an’ I kin read.”
“Oh,” murmured Mr. Burrow.
Mr. Connors waved his weapon with a gesture of energy.
“Let’s beat it,” he suggested. “Dis busted-up guy’s liable ter git homesick.”
Mr. Rat Connors superintended the arrangement of the car. The Honorable Alexander was requested to take the wheel, and the lady to sit at his side. Mr. Connors disposed himself in the tonneau, from which vantage-point he issued orders after the fashion of an Admiral from the bridge of his flag-ship.
Two hundred yards from the railroad track Mr. Connors gave the word to halt.
Having disembarked, he marshalled his cavalcade in what he deemed the most advisable formation.
“Let de lady go foist,” he suggested. “Dat’s de perlite system.” As they took the indicated order of precedence Mr. Connors added, “An’ den if yer makes a break, I won’t haf ter shoot t’rough de lady ter git yer, see?”
While they were picking their way through a bit of woods the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow was moved to speech.
“You see, Miss Asheton—Mary—I may call you Mary, mayn’t I? Life is full of chances. You need a protector. You had better reconsider and give me the right to act always——”
But Miss Asheton interrupted him with a clear peal of laughter. Despite the guard at the rear, she halted in her tracks.
“Certainly you may call me Mary,” she said, “and you may protect me, too. Protect me now. Take the gun away from this person.”
The halting of Miss Asheton forced the Honorable Alexander to halt, and the halting of the Honorable Alexander brought the cold muzzle of the revolver against the back of his neck.
“Move on dere!” ordered Mr. Connors. “Cut out de chin-music an’ keep hikin’!”
The march was resumed.
“Of course,” said Mr. Burrow, in a less jaunty voice, “there are times when we are at a disadvantage. The protection I alluded to——”
“Cut it out!” suggested Mr. Connors. “Less of dat comedy! Less of it!”
Mr. Burrow fell silent. To have one’s tenderest declarations pronounced comedy by a critic one is not at liberty to contradict, is disconcerting.
Then they came to the embankment and were instructed to climb up. On the railroad track they saw three men. One was an elderly gentleman in rusty clerical garb. One was a tall man of a younger generation, but the salient feature of the situation was that between them they supported a third person. Despite mud-smeared clothes and demoralized personal appearance, this third person was clearly recognizable to bride-elect and best man as Mr. Lewis Copewell.
Mr. Lewis Copewell raised his head and saw standing at the edge of the embankment a rare and radiant maiden whom mortals called Mary Asheton. For an hour Mr. Lewis Copewell had been demanding of the smoldering logs whether he should ever again clasp this rare and radiant maiden. It was upon this reverie that the Minister and his son, the Justice of the Peace, had arrived. And now—miracle of miracles!—there seemed to stand the lady in the flesh!
He tore himself from the supporting arms of the minister and the justice of the peace with an inarticulate roar. Then he proceeded to hop on one foot across the track, to find out whether this were a true vision or merely a brain mirage.
Miss Mary Asheton took a swift inventory of his injuries and went to meet him. Miss Mary Asheton did not have to hop, and a man can stand quite well on one foot when he has both arms around the only girl in the world. If you don’t believe it, try it.
It dawned quite suddenly on the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow that the party was quite complete. Bride, groom, best man, minister, witness and—how should he classify Mr. Connors? He swept a comprehensive glance about—but there was no Mr. Connors. Mr. Connors had vanished into the night as suddenly as he had arisen out of the night. He had played his part and passed.
In point of fact, Mr. Connors was looking on from the shadow of a not-too-distant sycamore. Sitting at the foot of this sycamore he drew from one pocket the gold timepiece that had formerly reposed in the pocket of Mr. Lewis Copewell. Then he abstracted from another pocket the watch that had been, until a short time ago, worn by the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow. Then he affectionately patted the rolls of greenbacks in his breast pocket.
“Oh, dat ain’t so bad!” he optimistically told himself.
For a moment there was silence on the railroad track. Then Mr. Copewell, feeling quite assured that the vision was genuine, managed to say, “Mary!”
Miss Asheton said, “Lewis!”
The Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow, thinking of nothing witty or timely to say, touched the minister on the arm and began feeling in his pockets for the marriage license.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 1911 issue of Adventure magazine.