CHAPTER XIII
HOSTILITIES BEGIN
During Mallory's absence, Marjorie had met with a little adventure ofher own. Ira Lathrop finished his re-encounter with Anne Gattleshortly after Mallory set out stalking clergymen. In the mingledconfusion of finding his one romantic flame still glowing on a vestalaltar, and of shocking her with an escape of profanity, he backed awayfrom her presence, and sank into his own berth.
He realized that he was not alone. Somebody was alongside. He turnedto find the great tear-sprent eyes of Marjorie staring at him. He rosewith a recrudescence of his woman-hating wrath, and dashing up theaisle, found the porter just returning from the baggage car. He seizedthe black factotum and growled:
"Say, porter, there's a woman in my berth."
The porter chuckled, incredulous:
"Woman in yo' berth!"
"Yes--get her out."
"Yassah," the porter nodded, and advanced on Marjorie with a gentle,"'Scuse me, missus--ye' berth is numba one."
"I don't care," snapped Marjorie, "I won't take it."
"But this un belongs to that gentleman."
"He can have mine--ours--Mr. Mallory's," cried Marjorie, pointing tothe white-ribboned tent in the farther end of the car. Then shegripped the arms of the seat, as if defying eviction. The porterstared at her in helpless chagrin. Then he shuffled back and murmured:"I reckon you'd betta put her out."
Lathrop withered the coward with one contemptuous look, and strodedown the aisle with a determined grimness. He took his ticket from hispocket as a clinching proof of his title, and thrust it out atMarjorie. She gave it one indifferent glance, and then her eyes andmouth puckered, as if she had munched a green persimmon, and a longlow wail like a distant engine-whistle, stole from her lips. IraLathrop stared at her in blank wrath, doddered irresolutely, androared:
"Agh, let her have it!"
The porter smiled triumphantly, and said: "She says you kin have herberth." He pointed at the bridal arbor. Lathrop almost exploded at theidea.
Now he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Little JimmieWellington emerging from his berth with an enormous smile:
"Say, Pop, have you seen lovely rice-trap? Stick around till sheflops."
But Lathrop flung away to the smoking room. Little Jimmie turned tothe jovial negro:
"Porter, porter."
"I'm right by you."
"What time d'you say we get to Reno?"
"Mawnin' of the fo'th day, sah."
"Well, call me just before we roll in."
And he rolled in. His last words floated down the aisle and met Mrs.Little Jimmie Wellington just returning from the Women's Room, whereshe had sought nepenthe in more than one of her exquisite littlecigars. The familiar voice, familiarly bibulous, smote her ear withamazement. She beckoned the porter to her anxiously.
"Porter! Porter! Do you know the name of the man who just hurried in?"
"No'm," said the porter. "I reckon he's so broken up he ain't got anyname left."
"It couldn't be," Mrs. Jimmie mused.
"Things can be sometimes," said the porter.
"You may make up my berth now," said Mrs. Wellington, forgetting thatAnne Gattle was still there. Mrs. Wellington hastened to apologize,and begged her to stay, but the spinster wanted to be far away fromthe disturbing atmosphere of divorce. She was dreaming already withher eyes open, and she sank into number six in a lotus-eater'sreverie.
Mrs. Wellington gathered certain things together and took up herhandbag, to return to the Women's Room, just as Mrs. Whitcomb cameforth from the curtains of her own berth, where she had made certainpreliminaries to disrobing, and put on a light, decidedly negligeenegligee.
The two women collided in the aisle, whirled on one another, as womendo when they jostle, recognized each other with wild stares ofamazement, set their teeth, and made a simultaneous dash along thecorridor, shoulder wrestling with shoulder. They reached the doormarked "Women" at the same instant, and as neither would have dreamedof offering the other a courtesy, they squeezed through together in aKilkenny jumble.