ON THE WAY TO JAFFA JUNCTION
The allegation that Love laughs at locksmiths has become more
generally accepted than verity warrants. In point of fact the
locksmith has never been altogether without the honors of war, and
during the last century or two he has made commendable progress in the
matter of bolts and tumblers and burglar-proof devices.
Love was supervising the packing of Mary Asheton’s steamer-trunks and
was particularly interested in the single suit-case surreptiously
intended for the Jaffa Junction trousseau. Love giggled as he looked
on, but the giggle was rather hysterical. “_He_ likes that black
gown,” said Mary, alone in her room with Love. “I wore it the evening
he proposed the last time—no, it was the third from the last time.”
The small god, Love, approved of Mary. Her red-brown hair, hanging in
braids, was very thick and long. About her temples were soft,
tendril-like curls of the variety that is most valuable to Love in his
business, because they are more enmeshing and binding than some of the
other links he is supposed to forge with the aid of his stout smith,
Hymen. He approved of her deep violet eyes, liquid with the electric
potency of personality. He approved of her willowy slenderness and the
grace of her carriage.
Love made an inventory of these assets, for like Napoleon Bonaparte he
was arraying his forces against all Europe. As he realized the
enormity of the proposition he sternly set his chubby features and
clasped his hands at his back in a truly Corsican attitude. There was
no room in the suit-case for his favorite gown! Mary Asheton sighed
deeply as she acknowledged it. She felt that, in the unfortunate
matter of paucity of raiment, the late Miss Flora McFlimsy of Madison
Square had nothing on her.
There was a hazardous point ahead which the god was gravely
considering. Mary would be entrusted to the personal care of the
conductor, and that functionary might feel warranted in asking
questions when his fair young charge desired to leave the train late
at night, unchaperoned and unescorted. Mary was thinking of that, too.
Now if “Captain” McDonald was in command of this run, all might yet be
well. “Captain” McDonald knew her very well and liked her very well
and was gifted with susceptibility and kindliness. But if “Captain”
Fallow was in charge, peril loomed large ahead.
“Captain” Fallow spelled Duty with heavy, black, capital letters. Had
he lived in the old Salem days, his hymn-singing basso would have
boomed loud and devout over all lesser sounds whensoever there was a
scold-ducking or a witch-burning. Mary had never run away with a man
before. She felt poignantly sensible of her inexperience. The fact
that she was running away with an absent man made it even harder.
Finally, she was on the train. Looking through dark windows she found
herself taking a dark view of life. She was frightened. If a woman is
not frightened on her first elopement, she is likely to be unfeminine.
Presently the conductor came and dropped to the arm of the next chair.
Providentially it was “Captain” McDonald.
“So you’re going to take a tour, Miss Mary?” was his original remark.
Mary smiled. She wanted to cry, but she had to win the “Captain,” and
she had found that her smile was usually an effective way to begin. If
that failed, she could cry later.
“You know, Miss Mary,” the conductor’s eyes grew reflective, “I’ve
thought now and again it’s strange you don’t get married.” He hastened
to add with gallantry, “I’m sure it ain’t for lack of opportunity.”
Mary gasped, then she leaned forward and laid her hand on the
conductor’s arm.
“Are you a really-truly friend of mine?” she demanded in a catchy,
half-sobbing voice.
“Any time you ain’t got a ticket you can ride with me,” the official
assured her. “But I guess you’ll marry one of them markeeses or dooks
and after that you’ll ride on them dinky European trains with tin
engines.”
There are times when good men swear, merely because polite language
fails of forcefulness. At such crises vigorous young women, being
denied that form of superlative, have recourse to slang.
“You’ve got another guess coming,” said Mary stoutly.
“I’m pleased to hear you say so,” commended “Captain” McDonald.
“There’s plenty of good young men in America.”
“I’m—I’m going to marry the best of them to-night,” confided Mary.
“I’m running away this very minute! He’s going to meet me at Jaffa
Junction!”
The trainman’s face clouded dubiously. The girl’s heart began beating
panic time. The dice of Fate were rolling.
“Your folks don’t know about this?” he inquired.
She shook her head. “They—they drove me to it!”
“Who’s your young man?” asked the “Captain.” She informed him.
“Captain” McDonald sat pondering inscrutably for a long while. The
girl’s breast heaved convulsively in suspense. The small god stood by
in Napoleonic posture, but whether it was the posture of Austerlitz or
Waterloo he did not himself know.
“I don’t see nothing the matter with Mr. Copewell, ma’am,” the man at
last adjudicated, “but I promised to see you safe to Mercerville. It’s
apt to look kind of careless-like to lose a young lady that’s put in
your charge.”
“But I’m of age!”
The conductor’s face brightened. It was a new situation and he was
willing to avail himself of technical defenses. “Then I guess you can
do what you like, but I wish you hadn’t told me in advance.”
“I was afraid,” naïvely explained Mary Asheton, “you wouldn’t let me
get off at Jaffa Junction.”
Again the train director thought deeply. Finally he announced himself.
“I’m ordered to stop my train at Jaffa Junction. I don’t know who gets
off there, see? But the brakeman will open up the vestibule door
and—may you never regret it, ma’am!”