XVI
THE MADDING CROWD
Twice a day, in the time whereof these things are written, the platformof the Denver Union Depot gave the incoming migrant his first trueglimpse of the untrammelled West. A broad sea of planking, open to theheavens--and likewise to the world at large--was the morning and eveningarena of a moving spectacle the like of which is not to be witnessed inany well-ordered railway station of the self-contained East.
Trains headed north, east, south, and west, backed across the platformand drawn apart in the midst to leave a passageway for the crowds; othertrains going and coming, with shouting yard-men for outriders to clearthe tracks; huge shifting pyramids of baggage piled high on tiltingtrucks, dividing with the moving trains the attention of the dodgingmultitude; the hurrying throngs imbued for the moment with the strenuoustravail-spirit of the New West; these were the persons and theproperties. And the shrieking safety-valves, the clanging bells, thetinnient gong of the breakfast-room, the rumbling trucks, and theunder-roar of matter in motion, were the pieces in the orchestra.
It is all very different now, I am told. They have iron railings withwicket-gates and sentinels in uniform who ask to see your ticket, and asquad of policemen to keep order, and rain-sheds over the platforms (itused not to rain in the Denver I knew), and all the other appurtenancesand belongings of a well-conducted railway terminus. But the elder orderof disorder obtained on the autumn morning when the "Flying Kestrel"came to rest opposite the gap in the bisected trains filling the othertracks. Brockway was the first man out of the Tadmor, but the gadfly wasa close second.
"No, sir; I don't intend to lose sight of you, Mr. ah--Brockway," hequavered; and he hung at the passenger agent's elbow while the latterwas marshalling the party for the descent on the breakfast-room, aprocess which vocalized itself thus:
_Brockway_, handing the ladies in the debarking procession down thesteps of the car: "Breakfast is ready in the dining-room. Special tablesreserved for this party. Wait, and we'll all go in together. Leave yourhand-baggage with the porter, unless it's something you will need duringthe day. Take your time; you have thirty minutes before the train leavesfor Clear Creek Canyon and the Loop."
_Chorus of the Personally Conducted:_
"How long did you say we'd have?"
"What are they going to do with our car while we're gone?"
"Say, Mr. Passenger Agent, are you sure the baggage will be safe if weleave it with the porter?"
"What time have you now?"
"How far is it over to those mountains?"
"Oh, Mr. Brockway; won't this be a good chance to see if my trunk wasput on the train with the others?"
"Say; what time did you say that Clear Creek Canyon train leaves?"
_Brockway_, answering the last question because the inquirer happens tobe nearest at hand: "Eight o'clock."
_The Querist_, with his watch (which he has omitted to set back tomountain time) in his hand: "Eight o'clock? Then it's gone--it'shalf-past eight now! Look here."
_Brockway_, who is vainly endeavoring to persuade an elderly maiden ladyto leave her canary in charge of the porter during the day: "That iscentral time you have, Mr. Tucker; mountain time is one hour slower.Careful, Mr. Perkins; let me take your grip. You won't need it to-day."
_The Elderly Maiden Lady:_ "Now, Mr. Brockway, are you _sure_ it'll beperfectly safe to leave Dicky with the porter?"
_Mr. Somers, sotto voce_ in Brockway's ear: "Hang Dicky! Let's go tobreakfast."
_The Gadfly:_ "Mr. ah--Brockway, you will oblige me by sitting at mytable. I don't ah--purpose to lose sight of you, sir."
_Brockway_, to the porter: "All out, John?"
_The Porter_, with the cavernous smile of his kind: "All out, sah."
_Brockway_, sandwiching himself between two of the unescorted ladies:"All aboard for the dining-room!"
So much Harry Quatremain, standing aloof, saw and heard, and was mindedto go back to President Vennor and make his report accordingly. But theyard crew, already busily dismembering the "Flying Kestrel," whipped theTadmor and the private car out into the yard, and the secretary was leftstanding in the unquiet crowd.
Having nothing better to do, he sauntered across to the depot, notintending to spy further upon the passenger agent, but rather cudgellinghis brain to devise some pretext upon which he could safely lie to thePresident and so appease his self-respect. The pretext did not suggestitself; and after looking into the dining-room, where he saw Brockwayand his thirty-odd in one corner, and the Burtons, whom he knew bysight, in another, he strolled out to the end of the building where theyard-crew was switching the Naught-fifty to its place on the short spur.The President was standing on the front platform; and Quatremain, havingno plausible falsehood ready, reported the simple fact.
"Very good," said his employer. "Now go back and keep your eye on him;and, at precisely five minutes of eight, come and tell me where he isand what he is doing."
Quatremain turned on his heel and swore a clerkly oath, well smothered,to the effect that he would do nothing of the sort. It was not the firsttime the President had used him as a private detective, but, happily,use had not yet dulled his reluctance. None the less, he went back tothe door of the dining-room and waited, and while he tarried curiositycame to keep wrath company. What was afoot that the President should beso anxious about the movements of the passenger agent? The secretarycould not guess, but he determined to find out.
Three minutes before Quatremain's time-limit expired, Brockway, followedclosely by a slope-shouldered old gentleman with close-set eyes, cameout with Burton. He nodded to the secretary and kept on talking to thegeneral agent. Quatremain could scarcely help overhearing.
"You can introduce yourself," he was saying; "there isn't time for anyformalities. You'll find them docile enough--they haven't any kickcoming with you, you know--and I'll be here to take them off your handswhen you get back. No, I'll not go over to the train, unless you want meto; I'm going to the telegraph office with Mr. Jordan here, and thenup-town to see our general agent about his ticket. Good-by, old man; andthank you again."
Quatremain looked at his watch. It was 7.55, to the minute, and hewalked leisurely around to the private car.
"Well?" said the President, and the steady gaze of the cold eye slew thefalsehood which the secretary was about to utter.
"He's in the telegraph office with one of his people," Quatremainreplied, angry enough to curse himself for being so weak as to tell thetruth.
"Very good. Go into my stateroom and get the mail ready. I'll come inand dictate to you presently."
The secretary obeyed as one who may not do otherwise, and left thestateroom door ajar. A moment later, he heard a tap at the door ofGertrude's room, and then the President and his daughter left the cartogether. Quatremain slammed down the cover of his desk, snatched hishat, and followed them. He had paid the servile price, and he would atleast gratify his curiosity.
He caught sight of them in the crowd streaming out toward the ColoradoCentral train, and scored the first point when he observed that thePresident made a detour to avoid passing the open door of the telegraphoffice. Then he kept them in view till he saw Miss Vennor give her handto Burton at the steps of one of the narrow-gauge cars.
At that moment, Mrs. Burton, who was comfortably established in themidst of a carful of the Tadmorians, chanced to look out of the window.She saw the President and his daughter come swiftly across the platform,saw her husband step out to meet them and shake hands with Gertrude,remarked the quick flash of glad surprise on the young girl's face, andthe nervous anxiety with which the President consulted his watch, andwas immediately as well apprised of the inwardness of the little plot asif she had devised it herself.
"Oh! _oh!_" she said to herself, with indignant emphasis; "thatvenerable old tyrant is turning her over to us to get her out of Fred'sway! _And he hasn't told her that Fred isn't going!_"
Now, to the Emily Burton type of woman-kind, the marring of a plot isonly less preci
ous than the making of one. The little lady had neverbeen known to think deeply, but a grain of swift wit is sometimes worthan infinity of tardy logic. Whatever intervened, the conclusion wasclear and definite; Brockway's chance must be rescued at allhazards--and there were only two minutes in which to do it.
She scanned the throng on the platform eagerly, hoping to catch sight ofhim, but the faces were all strange save one. That was the face of thePresident's private secretary; and, without a moment's hesitation, shebeckoned him.
Quatremain saw the signal, and made his way to her window, taking careto keep as many human screens as possible between himself and the groupat the car steps.
"Mrs. Burton, I believe," he said, lifting his hat.
"Yes"--hurriedly. "Do you know Mr. Brockway?"
Quatremain bowed.
"Do you know where he is now?"
"Yes; he's over in the telegraph office."
"Will you take him a message from me, quickly?"
"Certainly, with pleasure."
"Then tell him I say he is going to be lost if he doesn't catch thistrain; he'll understand. And _please_ hurry--there isn't a second tospare!"
Quatremain nodded, and vanished in the crowd. He understood nothing ofwhat was toward, but he suspected that what he was about to do wouldsomehow interfere with the President's plans, and that was sufficient tomake him run when he was well out of sight. He found Brockway in thetelegraph office, writing a message, with the slope-shouldered gentlemanat his elbow, and delivered Mrs. Burton's message _verbatim_ and shornof any introduction whatsoever.
The effect on the passenger agent was surprising, if not explanatory."Says I'm going to be--Not if I know it! I say, Tom"--flingingthe pad of blanks at the operator, to call his attention--"wireanything--everything--this gentleman wants you to; I'm off!"
"But, Mr. ah--Brockway, I--I protest!" buzzed the gadfly, clutching atthe passenger agent; but he was not quick enough, and when the protestwas formulated, there was no one but the operator to listen to it.
The engine-bell was ringing and the train had begun to move whenBrockway dashed out of the office, and the appreciative bystanders madeway for him and cheered him as he sped away across the platform. It wasneck-and-neck, and nothing to choose; but he was making it easily, whenhe collided squarely in mid career with the tall figure of thePresident. For a single passionate instant Mr. Francis Vennor forgot histraditions, and struck out savagely at the passenger agent. The blowcaught Brockway full in the chest and made him gasp and stagger; but hegathered himself quickly, swerved aside, and ran on, catching the rearhand-rail of the last car as the train swept out of the station.