MATRIMONY TO AND FRO
And the next morning they were in Wyoming--well toward the center of
that State. They had left behind the tame levels and the truly rural
towns and they were among foothills and mountains, passing cities of
wildly picturesque repute, like Cheyenne, and Laramie, Bowie, and
Medicine Bow, and Bitter Creek, whose very names imply literature and
war whoops, cow-boy yelps, barking revolvers, another redskin biting
the dust, cattle stampedes, town-paintings, humorous lynchings and
bronchos in epileptic frenzy.
But the talk of this train was concerned with none of these wonders,
which the novelists and the magazinist have perhaps a trifle
overpublished. The talk of this train was concerned with the eighth
wonder of the world, a semi-detached bridal couple.
Mrs. Whitcomb was eager enough to voice the sentiment of the whole
populace, when she looked up from her novel in the observation room
and, nudging Mrs. Temple, drawled: "By the way, my dear, has that
bridal couple made up its second night's quarrel yet?"
"The Mallorys?" Mrs. Temple flushed as she answered, mercifully. "Oh,
yes, they were very friendly again this morning."
Mrs. Whitcomb's countenance was cynical: "My dear, I've been married
twice and I ought to know something about honeymoons, but this
honeyless honeymoon----" she cast up her eyes and her hands in
despair.
The women were so concerned about Mr. and "Mrs." Mallory, that they
hardly noticed the uncomfortable plight of the Wellingtons, or the
curious behavior of the lady from the stateroom who seemed to be
afraid of something and never spoke to anybody. The strange behavior
of Anne Gattle and Ira Lathrop even escaped much comment, though they
were forever being stumbled on when anybody went out to the
observation platform. When they were dislodged from there, they sat
playing checkers and talking very little, but making eyes at one
another and sighing like furnaces.
They had evidently concocted some secret of their own, for Ira,
looking at his watch, murmured sentimentally to Anne: "Only a few
hours more, Annie."
And Anne turned geranium-color and dropped a handful of checkers. "I
don't know how I can face it."
Ira growled like a lovesick lion: "Aw, what do you care?"
"But I was never married before, Ira," Anne protested, "and on a
train, too."
"Why, all the bridal couples take to the railroads."
"I should think it would be the last place they'd go," said Anne--a
sensible woman, Anne! "Look at the Mallories--how miserable they are."
"I thought they were happy," said Ira, whose great virtue it was to
pay little heed to what was none of his business.
"Oh, Ira," cried Anne, "I hope we shan't begin to quarrel as soon as
we are married."
"As if anybody could quarrel with you, Anne," he said.
"Do you think I'll be so monotonous as that?" she retorted.
Her spunk delighted him beyond words. He whispered: "Anne, you're so
gol-darned sweet if I don't get a chance to kiss you, I'll bust."
"Why, Ira--we're on the train."
"Da--darn the train! Who ever heard of a fellow proposing and getting
engaged to a girl and not even kissing her."
"But our engagement is so short."
"Well, I'm not going to marry you till I get a kiss."
Perhaps innocent old Anne really believed this blood-curdling threat.
It brought her instantly to terms, though she blushed: "But
everybody's always looking."
"Come out on the observation platform."
"Oh, Ira, again?"
"I dare you."
"I take you--but" seeing that Mrs. Whitcomb was trying to overhear,
she whispered: "let's pretend it's the scenery."
So Ira rose, pushed the checkers aside, and said in an unusually
positive tone: "Ah, Miss Gattle, won't you have a look at the
landscape?"
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Lathrop," said Anne, "I just love scenery."
They wandered forth like the Sleeping Beauty and her princely
awakener, and never dreamed what gigglings and nudgings and wise
head-noddings went on back of them. Mrs. Wellington laughed loudest of
all at the lovers whose heads had grown gray while their hearts were
still so green.
It was shortly after this that the Wellingtons themselves came into
prominence in the train life.
As the train approached Green River, and its copper-basined stream,
the engineer began to set the air-brakes for the stop. Jimmie
Wellington, boozily half-awake in the smoking room, wanted to know
what the name of the station was. Everybody is always eager to oblige
a drunken man, so Ashton and Fosdick tried to get a window open to
look out.
The first one they labored at, they could not budge after a
biceps-breaking tug. The second flew up with such ease that they went
over backward. Ashton put his head out and announced that the
approaching depot was labelled "Green River." Wellington burbled:
"What a beautiful name for a shtation."
Ashton announced that there was something beautifuller still on the
platform--"Oh, a peach!--a nectarine! and she's getting on this
train."
Even Doctor Temple declared that she was a dear little thing, wasn't
she?
Wellington pushed him aside, saying: "Stand back, Doc., and let me
see; I have a keen sense of beau'ful."
"Be careful," cried the doctor, "he'll fall out of the window."
"Not out of that window," Ashton sagely observed, seeing the bulk of
Wellington. As the train started off again, Little Jimmie distributed
alcoholic smiles to the Green Riverers on the platform and called out:
"Goo'bye, ever'body. You're all abslootly--ow! ow!" He clapped his
hand to his eye and crawled back into the car, groaning with pain.
"What's the matter," said Wedgewood. "Got something in your eye?"
"No, you blamed fool. I'm trying to look through my thumb."
"Poor fellow!" sympathized Doctor Temple, "it's a cinder!"
"A cinder! It's at leasht a ton of coal."
"I say, old boy, let me have a peek," said Wedgewood, screwing in his
monocle and peering into the depths of Wellington's eye. "I can't see
a bally thing."
"Of course not, with that blinder on," growled the miserable wretch,
weeping in spite of himself and rubbing his smarting orb.
"Don't rub that eye," Ashton counselled, "rub the other eye."
"It's my eye; I'll rub it if I want to. Get me a doctor, somebody. I'm
dying."
"Here's Doctor Temple," said Ashton, "right on the job." Wellington
turned to the old clergyman with pathetic trust, and the deceiver
writhed in his disguise. The best he could think of was: "Will
somebody lend me a lead pencil?"
"What for?" said Wellington, uneasily.
"I am going to roll your upper lid up on it," said the Doctor.
"Oh, no, you're not," said the patient. "You can roll your own lids!"
Then the conductor, still another conductor, wandered on the scene and
asked as if it were not a world-important matter: "What's the
matter--pick up a cinder?"
"Yes. Perhaps you can get it out," the alleged doctor appealed.
The conductor nodded: "The best way is this--take hold of the
winkers."
"The what?" mumbled Wellington.
"Grab the winkers of your upper eyelid in your right hand----"
"I've got 'em."
"Now grab the winkers of your lower eyelid in your left hand. Now
raise the right hand, push the under lid under the overlid and haul
the overlid over the underlid; when you have the overlid well over the
under----"
Wellington waved him away: "Say, what do you think I'm trying to do?
stuff a mattress? Get out of my way. I want my wife--lead me to my
wife."
"An excellent idea," said Dr. Temple, who had been praying for a
reconciliation.
He guided Wellington with difficulty to the observation room and,
finding Mrs. Wellington at the desk as usual, he began: "Oh, Mrs.
Wellington, may I introduce you to your husband?"
Mrs. Wellington rose haughtily, caught a sight of her suffering
consort and ran to him with a cry of "Jimmie!"
"Lucretia!"
"What's happened--are you killed?"
"I'm far from well. But don't worry. My life insurance is paid up."
"Oh, my poor little darling," Mrs. Jimmie fluttered, "What on earth
ails you?" She turned to the doctor. "Is he going to die?"
"I think not," said the doctor. "It's only a bad case of
cinder-in-the-eyetis."
Thus reassured, Mrs. Wellington went into the patient's eye with her
handkerchief. "Is that the eye?" she asked.
"No!" he howled, "the other one."
She went into that and came out with the cinder.
"There! It's just a tiny speck."
Wellington regarded the mote with amazement. "Is that all? It felt as
if I had Pike's Peak in my eye." Then he waxed tender. "Oh, Lucretia,
how can I ever----"
But she drew away with a disdainful: "Give me back my hand, please."
"Now, Lucretia," he protested, "don't you think you're carrying this
pretty far?"
"Only as far as Reno," she answered grimly, which stung him to retort:
"You'd better take the beam out of your own eye, now that you've taken
the cinder out of mine," but she, noting that they were the center of
interest, observed: "All the passengers are enjoying this, my dear.
You'd better go back to the café."
Wellington regarded her with a revulsion to wrath. He thundered at
her: "I will go back, but allow me to inform you, my dear madam, that
I'll not drink another drop--just to surprise you."
Mrs. Wellington shrugged her shoulders at this ancient threat and
Jimmie stumbled back to his lair, whither the men followed him.
Feeling sympathy in the atmosphere, Little Jimmie felt impelled to
pour out his grief:
"Jellmen, I'm a brok'n-heartless man. Mrs. Well'n'ton is a queen among
women, but she has temper of tarant----"
Wedgewood broke in: "I say, old boy, you've carried this ballast for
three days now, wherever did you get it?"
Wellington drew himself up proudly for a moment before he slumped back
into himself. "Well, you see, when I announced to a few friends that I
was about to leave Mrs. Well'n'ton forever and that I was going out
to--to--you know."
"Reno. We know. Well?"
"Well, a crowd of my friends got up a farewell sort of divorce
breakfast--and some of 'em felt so very sad about my divorce that they
drank a little too much, and the rest of my friends felt so very glad
about my divorce, that they drank a little too much. And, of course, I
had to join both parties."
"And that breakfast," said Ashton, "lasted till the train started,
eh?"
Wellington glowered back triumphantly. "Lasted till the train started?
Jellmen, that breakfast is going yet!"