Latisan had eaten his breakfast in the grill of a big hotel with a vague
idea that such an environment would tune him up to meet the magnates of
the Comas company.
In his present and humbler state of mind, hungry again, he went into a
cafeteria.
Waiting at the counter for his meat stew and tea--familiar woods
provender which appealed to his homesickness--he became aware of a young
woman at his elbow; she was having difficulty in managing her tray and
her belongings. There was an autumn drizzle outside and Ward had stalked
along unprotected, with a woodman's stoicism in regard to wetness. The
young woman had her umbrella, a small bag, and a parcel, and she was
clinging to all of them, impressed by the "Not Responsible" signs which
sprinkled the walls of the place. When her tray tipped at an alarming
slant, as she elbowed her way from the crowded counter, Ward caught at
its edge and saved a spill.
The girl smiled gratefully.
"If you don't mind," he apologized; his own tray was ready. He took that
in his free hand. He gently pulled her tray from her unsteady grasp.
"I'll carry it to a table."
The table section was as crowded as the counter space. He did not offer
to sit opposite her at the one vacant table he found; he lingered,
however, casting about himself for another seat.
"May I not exchange my hospitality for your courtesy?" inquired the
girl. She nodded toward the unoccupied chair and he sat down and thanked
her.
She was an extremely self-possessed young woman, who surveyed him
frankly with level gaze from her gray eyes.
"You performed very nicely, getting through that crush as you did
without spilling anything," she commended.
"I've had plenty of practice."
She opened her eyes on him by way of a question. "Not as a waiter," he
proceeded. "But with those trays in my hand it was like being on the
drive, ramming my way through the gang that was charging the cook tent."
"The drive!" she repeated. He was surprised by the sudden interest he
roused in her. "Are you from the north country?" Her color heightened
with her interest. She leaned forward.
Latisan, in his infrequent experiences, had never been at ease in the
presence of pretty girls, even when their notice of him was merely
cursory. In the region where he had toiled there were few females, and
those were spouses and helpers of woods cooks, mostly.
Here was a maid of the big city showing an interest disquietingly
acute--her glowing eyes and parted lips revealed her emotions. At the
moment he was not able to separate himself, as a personality, from the
subject which he had brought up. Just what there was about him or the
subject to arouse her so strangely he did not pause to inquire of
himself, for his thoughts were not coherent just then; he, too, was
stirred by her nearer propinquity as she leaned forward, questioning him
eagerly.
He replied, telling what he was but not who he was; he felt a twinge of
disappointment because she did not venture to probe into his identity.
Her questions were concerned with the north country as a region. At
first her quizzing was of a general nature. Then she narrowed the field
of inquiry.
"You say the Tomah waters are parallel with the Noda basin! Do you know
many folks over in the Noda region?"
"Very few. I have kept pretty closely on my own side of the watershed."
"Isn't there a village in the Noda called Adonia?"
"Oh yes! It's the jumping-off place--the end of a narrow-gauge
railroad."
"You have been in Adonia?"
"A few times."
"I had--there were friends of mine--they were friends of a man in
Adonia. His name was--let's see!" He wondered whether the faint wrinkle
of a frown under the bronze-flecked hair on her forehead was as much the
expression of puzzled memory as she was trying to make it seem; there
did appear something not wholly ingenuous in her looks just then. "Oh,
his name is Flagg."
"Echford Flagg?"
"Yes, that's it. My friends were very friendly with him, and I'd like
to be able to tell them----" She hesitated.
"You have given me some news," he declared, bluntly; in his mood of the
day he was finding no good qualities in mankind. "I never heard of Eck
Flagg having any friends. Well, I'll take that back! I believe he's ace
high among the Tarratine Indians up our way; they have made him an
honorary chief. But it's no particular compliment to a white man's
disposition to be able to qualify as an Indian, as I look at it."
This time he was not in doubt about the expression on her face; a sudden
grimace like grief wreathed the red lips and there was more than a
suspicion of tears in her eyes. He stared at her, frankly amazed.
"If I have stepped on toes I am sorry. I never did know how to talk to
young ladies without making a mess sooner or later."
She returned no reply, and he went on with his food to cover his
embarrassment.
"Do you know Mr. Flagg?" she asked, after the silence had been
prolonged.
"Not very well. But I know about him."
"What especially?"
"That he's a hard man. He never forgets or forgives an injury. Perhaps
that's why he qualified so well as an Indian."
She straightened in her chair and narrowed those gray eyes. "Couldn't
there have been another reason why he was chosen for such an honor?"
"I beg your pardon for passing along to you the slurs of the north
country, miss----" he paused but she did not help him with her name.
"It's mostly slurs up there," he went on, with bitterness, "and I get
into the habit, myself. The Indians did have a good reason for giving
Flagg that honor. He is the only one in the north who has respected the
Indians' riparian rights, given by treaty and then stolen back. He pays
them for hold-boom privileges when his logs are on their shores. They
are free to come and go on his lands for birch bark and basket
stuff--he's the only one who respects the old treaties. That's well
known about Flagg in the north country. It's a good streak in any man,
no matter what folks say about his general disposition."
"I'm glad to hear you say that much!"
She pushed back her chair slightly and began to take stock of her
possessions. A sort of a panic came upon him. There were a lot of things
he wanted to say, and he could not seem to lay a tongue to one of them.
He stammered something about the wet day and wondered whether it would
be considered impudence if he offered to escort her, holding over her
the umbrella or carrying her parcel. He had crude ideas about the matter
of squiring dames. He wanted to ask her not to hurry away. "Do you live
here in New York--handy by?"
The cafeteria was just off lower Broadway, and she smiled. He realized
the idiocy of the question.
"I work near here! You are going home to the north soon?" The polite
query was in a tone which checked all his new impulses in regard to her.
"I'm headed north right now. If there's any information I can send
you----"
She shook her head slowly, but even the negative was marked by an
indecisive quality, as if she were repressing some importunate desire.
"I wish you a pleasant journey, sir." All her belongings were in her
hands.
"It's queer--it's almost more than queer how we happened to meet--both
interested in the north country," he stuttered, wanting to detain her.
He was hoping she would make something of the matter.
But she merely acknowledged the truth of his statement, adding, "There
would be more such coincidences in life if folks took the trouble to
interest themselves a bit in one another and compare notes."
She started to walk away; then she whirled and came back to the table
and leaned over it. Her soul of longing was in her eyes--they were
filled with tears. "You're going back there," she whispered. "God bless
the north country! Give a friendly pat to one of the big trees for me
and say you found a girl in New York who is homesick."
She turned from him before he could summon words.
He wanted to call after her--to find out more about her. He saw her
gathering up her change at the cashier's wicket. The spectacle reminded
him of his own check. Even love at first sight, if such could be the
strange new emotion struggling within him, could not enable him to leap
the barrier of the cashier's cold stare and rush away without paying
scot. He hunted for his punched check. He pawed all over the marble top
of the table, rattling the dishes.
A check--it was surely all of that!
The search for it checked him till the girl was gone, mingled with the
street crowds. He found the little devil of a delayer in the paper
napkin which he had nervously wadded and dropped on the floor. He shoved
money to the cashier and did not wait for his change. He rushed out on
the street and stretched up his six stalwart feet and craned his neck
and hunted for the little green toque with the white quill.
It was a vain quest.
He did not know just what the matter was with him all of a sudden. He
had never had any personal experience with that which he had vaguely
understood was love; he had merely viewed it from a standpoint of a
disinterested observer, in the case of other men. He hated to admit, as
he stood there in the drizzle, his defeat by a cafeteria check.
He remained in New York for another night, his emotions aggravatingly
complex. He tried to convince his soul that he had a business reason for
staying. He lied to himself and said he would make another desperate
sortie on the castle of the Comas company. But he did not go there the
next day. Near noon he set himself to watch the entrance of the
cafeteria. When he saw a table vacant near the door he went in, secured
food, and posted himself where he could view all comers.
The girl did not come.
At two o'clock, after eating three meals, he did not dare to brave the
evident suspicions of that baleful cashier any longer. Undoubtedly the
girl had been a casual customer like himself. He gave it up and started
for the north.