P.S. Mrs. Effie said she would broaden me out. Maybe she did,
because I felt pretty flat. Ha! ha!
Truth to tell, this wild suggestion at once appealed to me. I had an
impulse to withdraw for a season from the social whirl, to seek repose
among the glens and gorges of this cattle plantation, and there try to
adjust myself more intelligently to my strange new environment. In the
meantime, I hoped, something might happen to the dog of Mrs. Judson;
or he might, perhaps, in my absence outlive his curious mania for me.
Mrs. Effie, whom I now consulted, after reading the letter of Cousin
Egbert, proved to be in favour of my going to him to make one last
appeal to his higher nature.
“If only he’d stick out there in the brush where he belongs, I’d let
him stay,” she explained. “But he won’t stick; he gets tired after
awhile and drops in perhaps on the very night when we’re entertaining
some of the best people at dinner--and of course we’re obliged to have
him, though he’s dropped whatever manners I’ve taught him and picked
up his old rough talk, and he eats until you wonder how he can. It’s
awful! Sometimes I’ve wondered if it couldn’t be adenoids--there’s a
lot of talk about those just now--some very select people have them,
and perhaps they’re what kept him back and made him so hopelessly low
in his tastes, but I just know he’d never go to a doctor about them.
For heaven’s sake, use what influence you have to get him back here
and to take his rightful place in society.”
I had a profound conviction that he would never take his rightful
place in society, be it the fault of adenoids or whatever; that low
passion of his for being pally with all sorts made it seem that his
sense of values must have been at fault from birth, and yet I could
not bring myself to abandon him utterly, for, as I have intimated,
something in the fellow’s nature appealed to me. I accordingly
murmured my sympathy discreetly and set about preparations for my
journey.
Feeling instinctively that Cousin Egbert would not now be dressing for
dinner, I omitted evening clothes from my box, including only a
morning-suit and one of form-fitting tweeds which I fancied would do
me well enough. But no sooner was my box packed than the Tuttle person
informed me that I could take no box whatever. It appeared that all
luggage would be strapped to the backs of animals and thus
transported. Even so, when I had reduced myself to one park
riding-suit and a small bundle of necessary adjuncts, I was told that
the golf-sticks must be left behind. It appeared there would be no
golf.
And so quite early one morning I started on this curious pilgrimage
from what was called a “feed corral” in a low part of the town. Here
the Tuttle person had assembled a goods-train of a half-dozen animals,
the luggage being adjusted to their backs by himself and two
assistants, all using language of the most disgraceful character
throughout the process. The Tuttle person I had half expected to
appear garbed in his native dress--Mrs. Effie had once more referred
to “that Indian Jeff Tuttle”--but he wore instead, as did his two
assistants, the outing or lounge suit of the Western desperado, nor,
though I listened closely, could I hear him exclaim, “Ugh! Ugh!” in
moments of emotional stress as my reading had informed me that the
Indian frequently does.
The two assistants, solemn-faced, ill-groomed fellows, bore the
curious American names of Hank and Buck, and furiously chewed the
tobacco plant at all times. After betraying a momentary interest in my
smart riding-suit, they paid me little attention, at which I was well
pleased, for their manners were often repellent and their abrupt,
direct fashion of speech quite disconcerting.
The Tuttle person welcomed me heartily and himself adjusted the saddle
to my mount, expressing the hope that I would “get my fill of
scenery,” and volunteering the information that my destination was
“one sleep” away.