A TRAVELING ACQUAINTANCE.
“Well, my name is Hannah Amandy Manning, and I’m first cousin to
Minister Jones’s wife, an’ I teach a class in Sunday-school, an’ I’ve
had the deestrict school for three summers. I aint a married woman with
children of my own, but I’ve got a general interest in all young folks,
an’ I believe I’m kinder motherly, if I be an old maid. I’ve told you
now who I am. If you like to make a clean breast of it--for I know
you’ve got somethin’ out o’ the common to tell--I’ll give you advice
accordin’ to my judgment, or I’ll help you out o’ your scrape, whatever
it is, providin’ you’ve got the right kind o’ principles about you. I
aint goin’ in for any schemes for leavin’ a country home to seek your
fortin’ in a big city, that’s come out o’ readin’ improper literatoor.”
It was not like Marion to confide in a stranger, but she felt the need
of help, and her instincts had guided her correctly in asking it of
Miss Manning. The keen bright eyes were the windows of a faithful
heart which warmed generously to the brave girl as she heard all of the
story Marion thought it best to tell her.
“Well, I never!” “Sho!” and “I never did!” at intervals, were her
comments as the story proceeded. When it was done she grasped her long
chin in her right hand, and only saying, “Lemme think a minute,” gazed
for some time at the flying landscape.
Marion, too, was thinking, wondering what they were doing at school,
what they would think, and wondering if Mrs. Abbott would blame her for
making use of the money intrusted to her. Her reverie ended in such a
long sigh that Miss Manning turned around with a jerk.
“What now?” she demanded.
“Nothing, only I’m so troubled about spending Mrs. Abbott’s money.”
“Well, you needn’t be, if your Mrs. Abbott is the woman you make out
she is. She would not spare money in such a cause. You aint told me how
much you’ve got, and I’m glad of it; it shows you’ve got some worldly
wisdom, and, whatever happens, don’t you tell any body else you’ve got
a cent. This world’s full of villains, and there aint one in a thousand
that’s to be trusted, and them that looks like saints is more’n likely
to be wuss sinners than them that seems to be ragamuffins.”
“I trust you,” said Marion.
“Well, you don’t know as you’d oughter. How can you tell this minute
but I’m one of the very folks that’s plotting to get hold of that
child?”
“I want you to get hold of her, or help me to do it,” said Marion, with
a bright smile lighting up her worried face for a moment.
“Good for you!” said Miss Manning, with a smile that was good to see,
if less charming than the girl’s.
“Now, I’ve been thinking it over,” she continued, growing very sober,
“and this is the way it stands. You don’t even know for certain the
child is on the train?”
“No; but I am sure she must be.”
“Well, I guess she is; I feel it in my bones, as it were, that she is,
an’ I’m kinder witchy about feeling things, but you can’t go through
the cars looking at the folks to find out, for even if them circus
fortune-tellers didn’t recognize you the child would likely holler out
as soon as she seen you, an’ those folks’d get excited an’ try some
other dodge. They might even try to get you arrested for trying to
entice a child away from ’em.”
“Yes; I should have gone through the cars as soon as I paid my fare if
I hadn’t been afraid of that, and that is why I wanted your help. I was
going to ask the conductor if he had seen them, but I was afraid he
might tell them some one was asking for them. Do you think you could go
through and look for them, Miss Manning, if I told you just how they
look?”
“Certainly; I was just a-goin’ to propose it. I never have walked
through a train while ’twas goin’ jigglety-jiggle, but I guess I can do
it. Mebbe it’s against the law to go out of a car while it’s in motion,
but if that conductor tries to have me took up it’ll be the worst for
him, for I can prove I’m a respectable woman, no matter where I am.”
So showing her utter confidence in Marion by leaving in her charge
her traveling-bag and beloved crochet-work, Miss Manning, making wild
clutches at the seat-backs as the swaying car threw her from side to
side, began her exploring expedition through the train.
It seemed a long time to Marion before she returned, but the moment
she re-entered the car her sharp eyes sought the girl’s, and the quick
little nod she gave said plainly that she had found the objects of her
search.
She was a good deal excited by the part she was playing in the
adventure, but she would not be hurried, and, anxious as Marion was to
hear all she had to tell, she had to wait till Miss Manning had re-tied
her “bunnit,” straightened her shawl, and re-adjusted the overskirt
that had been pulled awry by contact with various impediments.
“I seen ’em,” she said at last; “two red-cheeked women and a scary
young man with cabbage roses on their bunnits; dressed to kill he was,
in ready-made clothes lots too big for him. He’s got a nose like a
poll-parrot’s beak, and they’ve got a child with ’em. But, land sakes,
it aint much more’n a baby. Poor little creetur, it’s asleep on one
seat with its head on a woman’s lap. It’s got a lace cap on its head
and a white dress with blue sash. It’s as pale as a ghost, an’ there’s
great black rings round its eyes. I should really say that they’d been
givin’ it something to make it sleep, it was such a heavy sleep, and
the child looked so peeked an’ queer.”
“O, dear!” said Marion, struggling with a sob. “I must get her away
from them. I am sure it must be Elfie. She’s a tiny thing with a sweet
little face and long wavy hair.”
“There wa’n’t much hair showin’, for she had her head covered all up
with an embroidered cap tied under her chin.”
“Elfie had a hat on, I think,’ said Marion, looking puzzled.
“Well, what of that? You had a hat on too, I s’pose, when you started,
but you’ve got on a Tam now.”
“O, yes; they may have put on the cap for a disguise. Well, what next,
Miss Manning? Could you find out where they were going?”
“They had one seat turned back so they faced each other,” continued
Miss Manning, “and right in front of them was a vacant seat. I slipped
into it and gave my whole mind to trying to catch what they said.
One of the women had the back of her head close to mine, and as she
couldn’t lean forward without disturbing the child I could hear what
she said pretty well. It seems they are going to Troy, then to New
York, and then, after the hue and cry is over, they are going somewhere
else. I picked out that much from their talk. But that isn’t all.
After we stopped the last time the man hailed the conductor as he went
through and asked for stop-over checks, saying one of the ladies was
sick, and he thought they’d have to put up over night at Blockville.
After they got the stop-overs they seemed to get at odds among
themselves about whether to use them or not; one of the women said it
would be safer and they could take the owl-train on in the night; the
other one said they might meet some one, and she was for going on. The
man told her if any one was coming they’d come down on the six-o’clock
accommodation this evening and go past them at Blockville, and besides
that some one might telegraph to have this train searched at Troy.
“I came away then,” continued Miss Manning, “for they didn’t seem to
be coming to any decision, and I thought we’d better be making some
counter-plans.”
“Yes,” said Marion, “I ought to get a stop-over check too, for if they
get out I must get out too. It wont do to lose sight of them.”
“If you do get off I had better telegraph to Mrs. Abbott for you as
soon as I get to Troy,” said Miss Manning, “and tell her you’re on the
track.”
“O, how good in you to think of it!” said Marion. “Tell her I’ll
telegraph myself when I can get a chance.”
“How shall I word it not to scare ’em to death? I never writ a dispatch
in my life.”
“Nor I either,” said Marion, “but I know you want to say as few words
as possible. If I had a pencil and paper I would try.”
Miss Manning’s traveling-bag supplied both, and their combined genius,
inexperienced as they were, produced this rather obscure telegram:
“Marion Stubbs is after them. They’ve got Elfie. Wait till she
sends for you.
“A. MANNING.”
It did not seem very clear to Marion, but she hardly knew how to change
it without offending Miss Manning, who seemed highly pleased with
it; so she wrote the address beneath and gave her a half dollar for
expenses, neither of them having any idea what a message ought to cost.
The next station was Colby, and, feeling sure that Blockville or Troy
would be the destination of the party, Marion did not look out for
them, but idly watched the group of passengers who were about to get
in. Suddenly there appeared upon the platform, making quick way to the
waiting-room, one of the black-eyed women with a child in her arms much
wrapped in a long dark cloak, followed closely by Madame Belotti and
the man.
“O, look, Miss Manning!” she exclaimed. “They are going to stop here
and I haven’t my stop-over check!”
“Never mind that, child,” said Miss Manning; “jump out quick. Mebbe
your ticket’ll do any way; ask ’em at the office ’fore you get on the
train again, and don’t worry if you have to lose it. Mrs. Abbott wont
care what you spend in such a case. Good-bye, dear, don’t you lose my
direction, and write to me sure as soon as you can.”