FOILED AGAIN
Mallory tucked Marjorie under his arm and Marjorie tucked Snoozleums
under hers, and they did a Sort of three-legged race down the
platform. The porter was pale blue with excitement, and it was with
the last gasp of breath in all three bodies that they scrambled up the
steps of the only open vestibule.
The porter was mad enough to give them a piece of his mind, and they
were meek enough to take it without a word of explanation or
resentment.
And the train sped on into the heart of Nebraska, along the unpoetic
valley of the Platte. When lunch-time came, they ate it together, but
in gloomy silence. They sat in Marjorie's berth throughout the
appallingly monotonous afternoon in a stupor of disappointment and
helpless dejection, speaking little and saying nothing then.
Whenever the train stopped, Mallory watched the on-getting passengers
with his keenest eye. He had a theory that since most people who
looked like preachers were decidedly lay, it might be well to take a
gambler's chance and accost the least ministerial person next.
So, in his frantic anxiety, he selected a horsey-looking individual
who got on at North Platte. He looked so much like a rawhided ranchman
that Mallory stole up on him and asked him to excuse him, but did he
happen to be a clergyman? The man replied by asking Mallory if he
happened to be a flea-bitten maverick, and embellished his question
with a copious flow of the words ministers use, but with a secular
arrangement of them. In fact he split one word in two to insert a
double-barrelled curse. All that Mallory could do was to admit that he
was a flea-bitten what-he-said, and back away.
After that, if a vicar in full uniform had marched down the aisle
heading a procession of choir-boys, Mallory would have suspected him.
He vowed in his haste that Marjorie might die an old maid before he
would approach anybody else on that subject.
Nebraska would have been a nice long state for a honeymoon, but its
four hundred-odd miles were a dreary length for the couple so near and
yet so far. The railroad clinging to the meandering Platte made the
way far longer, and Mallory and Marjorie felt like Pyramus and Thisbe
wandering along an eternal wall, through which they could see, but not
reach, one another.
They dined together as dolefully as if they had been married for forty
years. Then the slow twilight soaked them in its melancholy. The
porter lighted up the car, and the angels lighted up the stars, but
nothing lighted up their hopes.
"We've got to quarrel again, my beloved," Mallory groaned to Marjorie.
Somehow they were too dreary even to nag one another with an outburst
for the benefit of the eager-eyed passengers.
A little excitement bestirred them as they realized that they were
confronted with another night-robeless night and a morrow without
change of gear.
"What a pity that we left our things in the taxicab," Marjorie sighed.
And this time she said, "we left them," instead of "you left them." It
was very gracious of her, but Mallory did not acknowledge the
courtesy. Instead he gave a start and a gasp:
"Good Lord, Marjorie, we never paid the second taxicab!"
"Great heavens, how shall we ever pay him? He's been waiting there
twenty-four hours. How much do you suppose we owe him?"
"About a year of my pay, I guess."
"You must send him a telegram of apology and ask him to read his
meter. He was such a nice man--the kindest eyes--for a chauffeur."
"But how can I telegraph him? I don't know his name, or his number,
or his company, or anything."
"It's too bad. He'll go through life hating us and thinking we cheated
him."
"Well, he doesn't know our names either."
And then they forgot him temporarily for the more immediate need of
clothes. All the passengers knew that they had left behind what
baggage they had not sent ahead, and much sympathy had been expressed.
But most people would rather give you their sympathy than lend you
their clothes. Mallory did not mind the men, but Marjorie dreaded the
women. She was afraid of all of them but Mrs. Temple.
She threw herself on the little lady's mercy and was asked to help
herself. She borrowed a nightgown of extraordinary simplicity, a shirt
waist of an ancient mode, and a number of other things.
If there had been anyone there to see she would have made a most
anachronistic bride.
Mallory canvassed the men and obtained a shockingly purple shirt from
Wedgewood, who meant to put him at his ease, but somehow failed when
he said in answer to Mallory's thanks:
"God bless my soul, old top, don't you think of thanking me. I ought
to thank you. You see, the idiot who makes my shirts, made that by
mistake, and I'd be no end grateful if you'd jolly well take the
loathsome thing off my hands. I mean to say, I shouldn't dream of
being seen in it myself. You quite understand, don't you?"
Ashton contributed a maroon atrocity in hosiery, with equal tact:
"If they fit you, keep 'em. I got stung on that batch of socks. That
pair was originally lavender, but they washed like that. Keep 'em. I
wouldn't be found dead in 'em."
The mysterious Fosdick, who lived a lonely life in the Observation car
and slept in the other sleeper, lent Mallory a pair of pyjamas
evidently intended for a bridegroom of romantic disposition. Mallory
blushed as he accepted them and when he found himself in them, he
whisked out the light, he was so ashamed of himself.
Once more the whole car gaped at the unheard of behavior of its newly
wedded pair. The poor porter had been hungry for a bridal couple, but
as he went about gathering up the cast-off footwear of his large
family and found Mallory's big shoes at number three and Marjorie's
tiny boots at number five, he shook his head and groaned.
"Times has suttainly changed for the wuss if this is a bridal couple,
gimme divorcees."