THE ROAD TO THE WEST
Dust rolled about the jolting cars and sifted through every opening.
Cinders rattled on the roofs and the long train noisily followed the
river. Although the afternoon was hot, a stove burned in the
compartment at the back of the Colonist car, and Alison waited for a
tin kettle to boil. Kit leaned against the partition and entertained
two children by pulling a bootlace through a knot.
“Why, that’s just too cute!” one exclaimed, and seized Kit’s hand.
“You held on to both ends, but you pulled another through the loop.
How’d you fix it?”
“Ah,” said Kit, “there’s the puzzle! You see, a bootlace only has two
ends.”
The other child laughed. “A bootlace? Don’t you know it’s a
shoe-string?”
“I forgot,” said Kit. “I reckon sometimes it’s a shoe-tie. When you
come to think about it, the proper name’s important. People go by
names——”
“You talk queer. Say, where was you raised?”
“A conjurer’s habit is to talk. When you want folks to think a thing
is something it is not, high-faluting language helps. Magicians,
politicians and company floaters know the trick. However, if you fix
your eye on the shoe-string, I expect you’ll see it’s got four ends.”
“You’re surely smart,” the child remarked. “But where was you raised?”
“I doubt if I was raised; I rather think I was allowed to grow up,”
Kit replied in a sober voice. “Anyhow, I grew up at an old house by a
wood in England. A river went by the wood and the trees were planted
three hundred years ago. The fairies like old trees, and when the moon
was full they played about and rang the bluebells for music. If you
got up early in the morning, you saw the rings where they danced. Now
perhaps you know why I’m a conjurer.”
“My teacher allowed the fairies and spooks and ha’ants was gone. She
reckoned they couldn’t stand for locomotives and flivvers.”
“Well, I expect we have fired out the haunts and their rattling
chains; but the fairies are not yet out of date. Although you can’t
see them, sometimes you hear their music; in fact, when music is very
good, I think the fairies play. However, we’ll try a fresh experiment
with the magic shoe-string——”
A man carrying a frying-pan pushed back the door.
“You mustn’t let the kiddies bother you,” he said, and turned to
Alison. “I don’t want to hustle you, but when you’re through at the
stove I’ll get busy.”
“Let him use the stove; I’d sooner you didn’t roast yourself,” said
Kit. “The train stops at Ottawa, and we’ll get some food at a
restaurant.”
Alison smiled. “In a moment or two the water will boil, and we agreed
to get our meals on board. Then we bought the kettle, the tin plates,
and a quantity of groceries, and in order to get our money back the
things must be used.”
“People talk about women’s extravagance!” Kit remarked. “The women I
know are parsimonious.”
The passenger who carried the frying-pan grinned. “You’re young, but I
guess you know them, and your dame’s plan’s all right. When you want a
cheap eat, eat on the cars. If you get off at a meal-station, they
hand you red-hot hash and shout ‘_All aboard_.’ Well, I been married
some time, and my motto is: If you want to pay off your mortgage, the
dame must keep the wad.”
Kit thought Alison blushed, but she turned her head.
Alison brewed some coffee and Kit carried the pot to a second-class
car. A porter fixed a board for a table, and Alison, unpacking a
basket, began to cut sandwiches. Kit, until she stopped him,
extravagantly opened packets and cans. They had agreed to share
expenses, and Alison found that Canadian fruit and canned goods were
cheaper than she had thought. Kit said nothing, for he had flagrantly
cheated.
Lunch was a cheerful function. The coffee was good and all Alison put
on the tin plates was appetizing. Kit felt the meal was not a picnic;
it was a feast. Then, although dust and locomotive cinders blew about,
Alison’s clothes were not stained, and her hair was smooth and bright.
In the hot and dusty car, she looked strangely fresh and clean.
When the meal was over she carried off the plates and repacked the
basket. Nothing was left about. Kit noted her fastidious neatness, and
admitted that their housekeeping was marked by an intriguing charm. It
was not altogether because he liked to lunch with an attractive girl;
Alison gave the meal a friendly, homelike touch he had not known at
Netherhall. Yet she was not a sentimentalist. Only when she sang about
the Old Country had he thought her romantic. She was frank and cool
and, so to speak, capable.
The train followed the river. Dark pines, zigzag fences, wooden
farmsteads and silo towers rolled by the windows. One saw shining
water, and in the distance faint blue hills. Sometimes Kit studied a
newspaper and Alison sewed. Sometimes they talked and watched the
landscape speed by.
“Does the Canadian news interest you?” Alison inquired.
“The advertisements interest me, but so far nothing’s doing,” Kit
replied. “Somebody wants a man for a drygoods store and another who
can sell patent medicines is required. Well, I cannot. Perhaps it’s
strange, but, as a rule, men who make things can’t persuade folks to
buy. Nobody wants a minstrel. Gramophones and electric organs have
knocked us out. If I were rich, I’d have bought the organ at the
Montreal restaurant and wheeled it to the St. Lawrence in order to see
it splash.”
Alison smiled. She liked Kit’s humor, but sometimes she thought he did
not altogether joke.
“Until you’re famous, I expect music doesn’t pay. Haven’t you another
occupation?”
“One doesn’t start by being famous, but until you are famous you’re
not allowed to start. The critics are not logical,” said Kit. “Well,
perhaps I do know something about machine tools, and if the railroads
are building bridges and water-tanks, I might get a job. The Carsons’
business is to hammer iron. If you don’t mind, I’ll turn up the
commercial news.”
He folded the newspaper and Alison resumed her sewing. By and by the
conductor came along the passage and asked for their tickets.
“Your company’s generous,” Kit remarked. “My ticket’s a foot long. If
I was going to the Pacific, I expect you’d give me a yard.”
“Something like that,” the conductor agreed. “If you haven’t a slip
for each division, you’re put off the cars!” He turned to Alison. “I
reckon you want a sleeper berth?”
“Of course,” said Alison, but a train hand came from the vestibule and
beckoned the conductor.
“See you again,” he said and went off.
In the afternoon the train stopped at Ottawa, and when dusk began to
fall, Kit, in a corner of the smoking compartment, watched the Ontario
woods roll by. Dark pines cut the red sunset, but the woods were
broken, and rivers, streaked by tossing rapids, pierced the gloom.
Sometimes Kit saw a lake shine with faint reflections and melt. A
light wind blew through the compartment and carried the smell of
pines. By and by a porter lighted the lamp, and Kit got up. He thought
he would see if Alison had got her berth.
When he opened the door he noted that the porter had let down the
higher shelves and pulled the curtains. For the most part, the
passengers had gone to bed, and the fellow was arranging two or three
lower berths between the seats. Alison sat by a window and Kit thought
her disturbed. Her folding ticket was on the seat, and when she took a
thin roll of bills from her wallet she frowned.
“Hello!” said Kit. “Hasn’t the fellow fixed your berth?”
“He wants a ticket. At the steamship office they stated that sleeping
accommodation was supplied on board the trains.”
“That is so,” said Kit, who began to see a light. “The conductor’s not
about, but if you wait a few minutes, I expect to put all straight.”
He went off, but he did not look for the conductor. When he reached
the smoking compartment he pulled out some paper money and knitted his
brows. He had been extravagant, his wad had melted, and he did not
know when he would get a job. All the same, he imagined Alison’s wad
was smaller than his, and he understood her embarrassment.
On the Colonist cars sleeping accommodation, of a sort, is supplied
without charge; on board the other cars one must, as usual, buy a
ticket for a berth, but Alison had not reckoned on paying more.
Sometimes to go to bed on board a second-class car is awkward, and
Alison was fastidious. For her to use a Colonist car, crowded by
foreign emigrants, was unthinkable. Well, Kit had cheated her about
the lunch basket and he must cheat her again. He pulled out his
sleeper ticket, but since Alison imagined he looked for the conductor,
he resolved to wait for two or three minutes.
The train stopped, and Kit, going to the vestibule, saw a water tank,
a few indistinct houses and the station agent’s office. In the
background were dusky woods, and he heard cowbells chime. The guard
rail on the car platform was open, as if somebody had got down. Then a
man coming from the next car pushed past. His step was uneven, and he
lurched against the door. Kit wondered whether he was drunk, but he
turned the handle and vanished.
After a few moments somebody waved a lantern, the bell tolled, and the
cars jerked forward. In the quiet dark, the locomotive’s explosive
snorts rang like cannon shots; the train was heavy, and Kit thought
the track went up hill. He, however, must rejoin Alison, but when he
reached the car he stopped.
A man leaned over the seat Alison occupied. She faced the stranger,
but he blocked the passage between the benches and she had not got up.
The other passengers were in their berths behind the curtains, wheels
rolled, and the locomotive labored noisily up the incline. The fellow
certainly was drunk and carried a pocket flask and a shining cup. It
looked as if he urged Alison to take the cup, for her face was red.
Then she saw Kit, and her relief was flattering.
Signing her to be quiet, Kit advanced noiselessly. The stranger looked
the other way, and Kit stopped a few yards off. To disturb the
passengers by an angry dispute would embarrass Alison, and he doubted
if the other would weigh a logical argument. Then the fellow tried to
push the cup into Alison’s hand.
“The stuff’s all right. Fine club whisky; I got it at Quebec. They’ve
no use for Pussyfoots down the river.”
“I hate whisky,” said Alison in a quiet voice.
The other laughed. “Oh, shucks! You’re playing shy. Anyhow, you got to
sample some. I took a shine to you.” He stopped and the liquor
splashed. “Leg-go. Who the——?”
Kit pulled him from the bench and turned him round. The man was big,
but he was not steady on his feet and, since Kit was behind him, he
could not seize his antagonist. Kit kept behind, and holding him
firmly, pushed him to the door. They had not disturbed the passengers,
but since he must disengage one hand, the door was an obstacle. When
he let go, the other turned and drove the flask against his face.
Although the knock was hard, Kit turned the handle, and the fellow
plunged across the platform, got his balance, swore and came back. Kit
had thought he would be satisfied to put the other out, but the blow
had hurt and anger conquered him.
They grappled. The flask rolled under Kit’s foot, and his antagonist
knocked his head against the door. He began to think he had an awkward
job, but he had played Rugby football and studied Cumberland
wrestling. He tried for a proper hold and when he knew the hold was
good made a savage effort. His antagonist let go, plunged down the
steps, and vanished.
Kit, rather horrified, jumped for the bottom step, seized a brass loop
and leaned out. The beam from the windows swept the ground by the
track, and at the other end of the long train somebody got up and
began to run awkwardly after the cars. Kit sat down on the step and
laughed, a rather breathless laugh. Although the train was not going
very fast, he thought the other’s luck was good.
“You’re pretty hefty at a rough-house stunt,” somebody remarked, and
Kit saw the passenger who had waited for Alison at the stove.
“I don’t think I meant to put him off,” he said in an apologetic
voice.
“Well, you put up a useful fight and I wasn’t going to see you beat.
When my kiddies were peeved and train-sick you helped them keep bright
and they took a shine to you. I reckon you’re not a tourist. What’s
your line?”
“I’d like to get on a bridge or tank-building job. I can use a
fitter’s tools.”
“A construction company’s putting a new bridge across Harper’s Bar,
and when I’ve dumped the kiddies, I expect to make the camp. The
bosses know me, and if you look me up I might fix something. Ask for
Jake Gordon.”
“Thank you,” said Kit, and the conductor and a train hand crossed the
platform.
“Did you see the Montreal drummer?” the conductor inquired.
“I saw a pretty drunk man,” Kit replied. “Do you want the fellow?”
“Sure! He was making trouble in a first-class sleeper; tried to pull
out a passenger whose berth he claimed. Where’s he gone?”
“He went down the steps,” said Kit. “A minute or two since he was
running after the train.”
The train hand lifted his lantern and the conductor saw a red mark on
Kit’s face.
“Looks as if something hit you,” he said meaningly.
“The drummer’s flask. The knock accounts for his getting off the
train.”
“You put him off?” said the railroad man. “You have surely got some
gall! Well, you’ve saved me trouble, and when he gets tired I reckon
he’ll steer for the depot.”
He banged the door and Kit pulled his clothes straight and rejoined
Alison.
“The fellow who bothered you is gone and I saw the conductor,” he
said, and gave her his sleeper ticket. “The porter’s coming and will
make up your berth. Good-night!”
Alison thanked him, and he went along the train to an emigrant car.
Pulling a shelf from the roof he climbed up and folded his coat for a
pillow. The polished shelf was hard and Kit had no rug, but he was
young and the night was hot. The roll of the wheels got soothing and
died away, and he was asleep.