FOILED!
It was late in the forenoon before the train came to the end of its
iron furrow across that fertile space between two of the world's
greatest rivers, which the Indians called "Iowa," nobody knows exactly
why. In contrast with the palisades of the Mississippi, the Missouri
twists like a great brown dragon wallowing in congenial mud. The water
itself, as Bob Brudette said, is so muddy that the wind blowing across
it raises a cloud of dust.
A sonorous bridge led the way into Nebraska, and the train came to a
halt at Omaha. Mallory and Marjorie got out to stretch their legs and
their dog. If they had only known that the train was to stop there the
quarter of an hour, and if they had only known some preacher there and
had had him to the station, the ceremony could have been consummated
then and there.
The horizon was fairly saw-toothed with church spires. There were
preachers, preachers everywhere, and not a dominie to do their deed.
After they had strolled up and down the platform, and up and down,
and up and down till they were fain of their cramped quarters again,
Marjorie suddenly dug her nails into Mallory's arm.
"Honey! look!--look!"
Honey looked, and there before their very eyes stood as clerical a
looking person as ever announced a strawberry festival.
Mallory stared and stared, till Marjorie said:
"Don't you see? stupid! it's a preacher! a preacher!"
"It looks like one," was as far as Mallory would commit himself, and
he was turning away. He had about come to the belief that anything
that looked like a parson was something else. But Marjorie whirled him
round again, with a shrill whisper to listen. And he overheard in
tones addicted to the pulpit:
"Yes, deacon, I trust that the harvest will be plentiful at my new
church. It grieves me to leave the dear brothers and sisters in the
Lord in Omaha, but I felt called to wider pastures."
And a lady who was evidently Mrs. Deacon spoke up:
"We'll miss you terrible. We all say you are the best pastor our
church ever had."
Mallory prepared to spring on his prey and drag him to his lair, but
Marjorie held him back.
"He's taking our train, Lord bless his dear old soul."
And Mallory could have hugged him. But he kept close watch. To the
rapture of the wedding-hungry twain, the preacher shook hands with
such of his flock as had followed him to the station, picked up his
valise and walked up to the porter, extending his ticket.
But the porter said--and Mallory could have throttled him for saying
it:
"'Scuse me, posson, but that's yo' train ova yonda. You betta move
right smaht, for it's gettin' ready to pull out."
With a little shriek of dismay, the parson clutched his valise and set
off at a run. Mallory dashed after him and Marjorie after Mallory.
They shouted as they ran, but the conductor of the east-bound train
sang out "All aboard!" and swung on.
The parson made a sprint and caught the ultimate rail of the moving
train. Mallory made a frantic leap at a flying coat-tail and missed.
As he and Marjorie stood gazing reproachfully at the train which was
giving a beautiful illustration of the laws of retreating perspective,
they heard wild howls of "Hi! hi!" and "Hay! hay!" and turned to see
their own train in motion, and the porter dancing a Zulu step
alongside.