THE PERFECT GENTLEMAN
Hervey did not wait to hear the visiting traveler and naturalist. He
took the noon train from Catskill and at Albany caught a train east
which took him to Farrelton, the small New England city where he lived.
He did not waste the precious hours en route. Evading an all-seeing
conductor, he sought the forbidden platform of the car and made
acquaintance with a trainman who reluctantly permitted him to remain
outside. He asked the trainman to “sneak” him into the locomotive and
when told that this was impossible, he suggested overcoming the
difficulty by matching pennies to determine whether the rule might not
be broken. The trainman was immovable, but he relaxed enough to permit
himself to hobnob with this restless young free lance on the flying
platform.
“I bet you can’t walk through the car without touching the seats while
the train is going around a turn,” Hervey challenged. “Bet you three
cigar coupons.”
The trainman declining to essay this stunt, Hervey attempted it himself
while the train was sweeping around a curve which skirted the foot of
one of the beautiful Berkshire mountains. He succeeded so well that
about midway of the car he went sprawling into the lap of a bespectacled
young man who seemed greatly ruffled by this sudden avalanche.
Hervey rolled around into the seat beside the stranger and said, “That’s
mighty hard to do, do you know it? Keep your eye out for another hill
with a curve around it and I’ll do it, you see. Leave it to me.”
“You came very near not leaving anything to _me_,” said the young man,
picking up his spectacles and gathering the grip and bundles that
Hervey’s precipitate arrival had scattered on the floor.
“I went kerflop, hey?”
“You certainly did,” said the young man.
Since Hervey was in the seat he remained there a few minutes. “Oh,
_bambino_, you’re a lucky guy!” he said, noticing the pasters on the
stranger’s suitcase. “That’s where I’m going all right.” This was true
only in the sense that Hervey intended to go everywhere. He had never
planned to favor Montana at the expense of other states.
“I hope you won’t arrive there so roughly,” said the young man.
The word _roughly_ caught Hervey and he glanced sideways at the young
man rather more interestedly than he usually did at chance
acquaintances. For indeed all people were pretty much the same to
Hervey. What he saw was a young fellow of perhaps twenty who gave the
impression of being so correct in his deportment that his sudden
discomforture made him look ridiculous. He was so utterly out of the
spirit of Hervey’s prank! Fate had certainly brought together an
all-assorted pair. He was an oldish young fellow, a perfect gentleman
assuredly; too nearly perfect for his age.
“Did you lasso any ponies out there?” Hervey demanded briskly, as if
these exploits were Montana’s single claim to importance.
“I don’t think I even saw any,” said the young man.
“Didn’t even see any? They’ve got train robbers.”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly deny that.”
“Were you running away from home?” Hervey asked, in his rapid fire
fashion.
“I was attending a musical convention,” said the young fellow.
“Oh, music. Can you play the harmonica?”
“I never tried.”
“Bet your life I’m going to Montana; yop, soon as I get the price. And
believe me, I know where I’m going to get it.”
“You seem to be sure of everything,” said the stranger.
“I’m going to collop it,” said Hervey.
“That might be interesting if I knew what it meant,” his companion
observed.
“You don’t know what collop means?”
“I must confess I don’t.”
“Good night!” ejaculated Hervey. “You know what bandits are, don’t you?”
“You mean to be a bandit?”
“Jiminetty, they’re not so bad. Look at Robin Hood; don’t they write
poems and operas about him and everything? You’re supposed to know all
about music, gee williger!”
This deft reasoning which seemed in a way to place music lovers in the
category with outlaws did reach the young fellow’s limited sense of
humor and he smiled. “Well, you’re certainly a queer youngster,” said
he.
Pity the boy of twenty who calls another boy a youngster!
“How much do I have to have to go to Montana?” Hervey demanded.
“Well, you have to have considerable.”
“A hundred bucks?”
“At least.”
“That’s me, all right,” said Hervey.
It was characteristic of him that his resolution to go to Montana had
originated at the moment of his noticing the stranger’s suitcase. It was
also characteristic of him to say that he knew how he was to obtain the
money to go there, when in fact he had no such knowledge. Yet it was not
exactly an untruth since he had many singular plans for earning money.
Did not he intend to join a circus?
Moreover, it was characteristic of him that he did not linger in the
seat. Soon the train entered another curve and that was his cue to
depart almost as unceremoniously as he had arrived, leaving the strange
young fellow staring after him rather curiously.
Hervey’s second attempt was no more successful than his first. He would
not check his staggering progress by using his hands because of a rhymed
couplet which was part of his creed:
Try a stunt and make a rule,
Break it and you’re one big fool.
Again he went sprawling, this time upon the lap of a kindly old
gentleman, who smiled upon him and made a place for him on the seat.
“Maybe you think that’s easy,” said Hervey.