THE TRAIN BUTCHER
Mallory was dragging out a miserable existence with a companion who
was neither maid, wife, nor widow and to whom he was neither bachelor,
husband, nor relict.
They were suffering brain-fag from their one topic of conversation,
and heart-fag from rapture deferred. Marjorie had pretended to take a
nap and Mallory had pretended that he would leave her for her own
sake. Their contradictory chains were beginning to gall.
Mallory sat in the smoking room, and threw aside a half-finished
cigar. Life was indeed nauseous when tobacco turned rank on his lips.
He watched without interest the stupendous scenery whirling past the
train; granite ravines, infernal grotesques of architecture and
diablerie, the Giant's Teapot, the Devil's Slide, the Pulpit Rock, the
Hanging Rock, splashes of mineral color, as if titanic paint pots had
been spilled or flung against the cliffs, sudden hushes of green
pine-worlds, dreary graveyards of sand and sagebrush, mountain streams
in frothing panics.
His jaded soul could not respond to any of these thrillers, the
dime-novels and melodramatic third-acts of Nature. But with the
arrival of a train-boy, who had got on at Evanston with a batch of
Salt Lake City newspapers, he woke a little.
The other men came trooping round, like sheep at a herd-boy's whistle
or chickens when a pan of grain is brought into the yard. The train
"butcher" had a nasal sing-song, but his strain might have been the
Pied Piper's tune emptying Hamelin of its grown-ups. The charms of
flirtation, matrimonial bliss and feminine beauty were forgotten, and
the males flocked to the delights of stock-market reports, political
or racing or dramatic or sporting or criminal news. Even Ashton braved
the eyes of his fellow men for the luxury of burying his nose in a
fresh paper.
"Papers, gents? Yes? No?" the train butcher chanted. "Salt Lake
papers, Ogden papers, all the latest papers, comic papers, magazines,
periodicals."
"Here, boy," said Ashton, snapping his fingers, "what's the latest New
York paper?"
"Last Sat'day's."
"Six days old? I read that before I left New York. Well, give me that
Salt Lake paper. It has yesterday's stock market, I suppose."
"Yes, sir." He passed over the sheet and made change, without abating
his monody: "Papers, gents. Yes? No? Salt Lake pa----"
"Whash latesh from Chicago?" said Wellington.
"Monday's."
"I read that before--that breakfast began," laughed Little Jimmie.
"Well, give me _Salt Lake Bazoo_. It has basheball news, I s'pose."
"Yes, sir," the butcher answered, and his tone grew reverent as he
said: "The Giants won. Mr. Mattyson was pitching. Papers, gents, all
the latest papers, magazines, periodicals."
Wedgewood extended a languid hand: "What's the latest issue of the
_London Times_?"
"Never heard of it."
Wedgewood almost fainted, and returned to his Baedeker of the United
States.
Dr. Temple summoned the lad: "I don't suppose you have the _Ypsilanti
Eagle_?"
The butcher regarded him with pity, and sniffed: "I carry newspapers,
not poultry."
"Well, give me the----" he saw a pink weekly of rather picturesque
appearance, and the adventure attracted him. "I'll take this--also the
_Outlook_." He folded the pink within the green, and entered into a
new and startling world--a sort of journalistic slumming tour.
"Give me any old thing," said Mallory, and flung open an Ogden journal
till he found the sporting page, where his eyes brightened. "By jove,
a ten-inning game! Matthewson in the box!"
"Mattie is most intelleckshal pitcher in the world," said Little
Jimmie, and then everybody disappeared behind paper ramparts, while
the butcher lingered to explain to the porter the details of the great
event.
About this time, Marjorie, tired of her pretence at slumber, strolled
into the observation car, glancing into the men's room, where she saw
nothing but newspapers. Then Mrs. Wellington saw her, and smiled:
"Come in and make yourself at home."
"Thanks," said Marjorie, bashfully, "I was looking for my--my----"
"Husband?"
"My dog."
"How is he this morning?"
"My dog?"
"Your husband."
"Oh, he's as well as could be expected."
"Where did you get that love of a waist?" Mrs. Wellington laughed.
"Mrs. Temple lent it to me. Isn't it sweet?"
"Exquisite! The latest Ypsilanti mode."
Marjorie, suffering almost more acutely from being badly frocked than
from being duped in her matrimonial hopes, threw herself on Mrs.
Wellington's mercy.
"I'm so unhappy in this. Couldn't you lend me or sell me something a
little smarter?"
"I'd love to, my dear," said Mrs. Wellington, "but I left home on
short notice myself. I shall need all my divorce trousseau in Reno.
Otherwise--I--but here's your husband. You two ought to have some
place to spoon. I'll leave you this whole room."
And she swept out, nodding to Mallory, who had divined Marjorie's
presence, and felt the need of being near her, though he also felt the
need of finishing the story of the great ball game. Husband-like, he
felt that he was conferring sufficient courtesy in throwing a casual
smile across the top of the paper.
Marjorie studied his motley garb, and her own, and groaned:
"We're a sweet looking pair, aren't we?"
"Mr. and Miss Fit," said Mallory, from behind the paper.
"Oh, Harry, has your love grown cold?" she pleaded.
"Marjorie, how can you think such a thing?" still from behind the
paper.
"Well, Mrs. Wellington said we ought to have some place to spoon, and
she went away and left us, and--there you stand--and----"
This pierced even the baseball news, and he threw his arms around her
with glow of devotion.
She snuggled closer, and cooed: "Aren't we having a nice long
engagement? We've traveled a million miles, and the preacher isn't in
sight yet. What have you been reading--wedding announcements?"
"No--I was reading about the most wonderful exhibition. Mattie was in
the box--and in perfect form."
"Mattie?" Marjorie gasped uneasily.
"Mattie!" he raved, "and in perfect form."
And now the hidden serpent of jealousy, which promised to enliven
their future, lifted its head for the first time, and Mallory caught
his first glimpse of an unsuspected member of their household.
Marjorie demanded with an ominous chill:
"And who's Mattie? Some former sweetheart of yours?"
"My dear," laughed Mallory.
But Marjorie was up and away, with apt temper: "So Mattie was in the
box, was she? What is it to you, where she sits? You dare to read
about her and rave over her perfect form, while you neglect your
wife--or your--oh, what am I, anyway?"
Mallory stared at her in amazement. He was beginning to learn what
ignorant heathen women are concerning so many of the gods and
demi-gods of mankind. Then, with a tenderness he might not always
show, he threw the paper down and took her in his arms: "You poor
child. Mattie is a man--a pitcher--and you're the only woman I ever
loved--and you are liable to be my wife any minute."
The explanation was sufficient, and she crawled into the shelter of
his arm with little noises that served for apology, forgiveness and
reconciliation. Then he made the mistake of mentioning the sickening
topic of deferred hope:
"A minister's sure to get on at the next stop--or the next."
Marjorie's nerves were frayed by too much enduring, and it took only a
word to set them jangling: "If you say minister to me again, I'll
scream." Then she tried to control herself with a polite: "Where is
the next stop?"
"Ogden."
"Where's that? On the map?"
"Well, it's in Utah."
"Utah!" she groaned. "They marry by wholesale there, and we can't even
get a sample."