A Romance in Transit Page 4

  IV

  THE DINNER STATION

  The railway company's hotel at Moreno is a pretentious Queen Annecockle-shell, confronted by a broad platform flowing in an unrippledtide of planking between the veranda and the track, with tributarywooden streams paralleling the rails.

  Brockway knew this platform by length and by breadth; and when the"Flying Kestrel" ranged alongside he meant to project himself into theprocession of dinner-seekers what time Miss Vennor should be passing theTadmor. But _l'homme propose, et la femme_----

  "Oh, Mr. Brockway; _will_ you help me find my satchel? the one with themonogram, you know. I can't find it anywhere." Thus one of theunescorted ladies whose major weakness was a hopeless inability to keepin touch with her numerous belongings.

  The train was already at a stand, but Brockway smothered his impatienceand joined the search for the missing hand-bag, contenting himself witha glimpse of the President's daughter as she passed the windows of theTadmor. Fleeting as it was, the glimpse fired his heart anew. The yearhad brought her added largesse of beauty and winsomeness. The wind wasblowing free and riotous, caressing the soft brown hair under the daintytravelling hat, and twisting the modest gray gown into clingingdraperies as she breasted it. Brockway gazed and worshipped afresh, andprudence and poverty-pride vanished when he observed that she wasleaning upon the arm of an athletic young man, whose attitude wassufficiently lover-like to make the passenger agent abjure wisdom andcurse common sense.

  "That's what I get for playing the finical idiot!" he groaned. "A yearago I might have had it all my own way if I hadn't been a pride-riddenfool. Confound the money, anyway; it's enough to make a man wish it wereall at the bottom of the sea!"

  With which anarchistic reflection he went out to arrange fortransferring the Tadmor, and, incidentally, to get his own dinner. Whenthe first was done there was scant time for the second, and he was atthe lunch counter when the President's party went back to theNaught-fifty.

  "Why, they've taken on another car," said Gertrude, noticing the change.

  "No," her father rejoined, shortly; "we have a passenger agent on board,and he has seen fit to put his excursionists' car in the rear."

  At the word, Gertrude's thoughts went back to a certain afternoon filledwith a swift rush down a precipitous canyon, with a brawling stream atthe track-side, and a simple-hearted young man, knowing naught of theartificialities and much of the things that are, at her elbow.

  The train of reflection paused when they reached the sitting-room of theprivate car, but it went on again when the President's daughter hadcurled herself into the depths of a great wicker sleepy-hollow to watchthe unending procession of stubble-fields slipping past the car window.How artlessly devoted he had been, this earnest young private in thegreat business army; so different from--well, from Chester Fleetwell,for example. Chester's were the manners of a later day; a day in whichthe purely social distinctions of sex are much ignored. That, too, waspleasant, in its way. And yet there was something very charming in theelder fashion.

  And Mr. Brockway knew his role and played it well--if, indeed, it were arole, which she very much doubted. Old school manners are not to be puton and off like a garment, nor is sincerity to be aped as a fad. Justhere reflection became speculative. What had become of Mr. Brockwaysince their "Mormon day"? Had he gone on with his school-mistresses andended by marrying one of them? There was something repellent in thethought of his marrying any one, but when reason demanded a reason,Gertrude's father had joined her.

  "I hope we shall be able to have dinner in the car," the President said,drawing up a chair. "I stumbled upon a young mechanic when I wentforward to inquire about the eating-station, and he agreed to repair therange this afternoon."

  "How fortunate!"

  "Yes," the President rejoined; and then he began to debate with himselfas to the strict truth of the affirmative, and the conversationlanguished.

  Meanwhile, Brockway had hastened out to the engine at the cry of "Allaboard!" The 828 was sobbing for the start when he climbed to thefoot-board, and the engineer, who knew him, grinned knavishly.

  "Better get you some overclothes if you're goin' to ride up here," hesuggested.

  "I'm not going to stay. Lend me a pair of overalls, and a jumper, and apair of pipe-tongs, and a hammer, and a few other things, will you?"

  "Sure thing," said the man at the throttle. "What's up? One o' yourtourists broke a side-rod?"

  Brockway laughed and dropped easily into the technical figure of speech.

  "No; crown-sheet's down in the Naught-fifty's cook-stove, and I'm goingto jack it up."

  "Good man," commented the engineer, who rejoiced in Brockway's happylack of departmental pride. "Help yourself to anything you can find."

  Brockway found a grimy suit of overclothes and took off his coat.

  "Goin' to put 'em on here and go through the train in uniform?" laughedthe engineer.

  "Why not?" Brockway demanded. "I'm not ashamed of the blue denim yet.Wore it too long."

  He donned the craftsman's uniform. The garments were a trifle short atthe extremities, but they more than made up for the lack equatorially.

  "How's that for a lightning change?" he shouted, trying to make himselfheard above the din and clangor of the engine. "Just hang on to my coatand hat till I get back, and I'll swap with you again." And gathering upthe handful of tools, he climbed back over the coal and disappearedthrough the door of the mail car.