CHAPTER XVI
GOOD NIGHT, ALL!
The car was settling gradually into peace. But there was still somemurmur and drowsy energy. Shoes continued to drop, heads to bumpagainst upper berths, the bell to ring now and then, and ring againand again.
The porter paid little heed to it; he was busy making up number five(Ira Lathrop's berth) for Marjorie, who was making what preparationsshe could for her trousseauless, husbandless, dogless first night out.
Finally the Englishman, who had almost rung the bell dry ofelectricity, shoved from his berth his indignant and undignified head.Once more the car resounded with the cry of "Pawtah! Pawtah!"
The porter moved up with noticeable deliberation. "Did you ring, sah?"
"Did I ring! Paw-tah, you may draw my tub at eight-thutty in themawning."
"Draw yo'--what, sah?" the porter gasped.
"My tub."
"Ba-ath tub?"
"Bahth tub."
"Lawdy, man. Is you allowin' to take a ba-ath in the mawnin'?"
"Of course I am."
"Didn't you have one befo' you stahted?"
"How dare you! Of cawse I did."
"Well, that's all you git."
"Do you mean to tell me that there is no tub on this beastly train?"Wedgewood almost fell out of bed with the shock of this news.
"We do not carry tubs--no, sah. There's a lot of tubs in SanFrancisco, though."
"No tub on this train for four days!" Wedgewood sighed. "But whateverdoes one do in the meanwhile?"
"One just waits. Yassah, one and all waits."
"It's ghahstly, that's what it is, ghahstly."
"Yassah," said the porter, and mumbled as he walked away, "but theweather is gettin' cooler."
He finished preparing Marjorie's bunk, and was just suggesting thatMallory retreat to the smoking room while number three was made up,when there was a commotion in the corridor, and a man in checkedoveralls dashed into the car.
His ear was slightly red, and he held at arm's length, as if it were avenomous monster, Snoozleums. And he yelled:
"Say, whose durn dog is this? He bit two men, and he makes so muchnoise we can't sleep in the baggage car."
Marjorie went flying down the aisle to reclaim her lost lamb in wolf'sclothing, and Snoozleums, the returned prodigal, yelped and leaped,and told her all about the indignities he had been subjected to, andhis valiant struggle for liberty.
Marjorie, seeing only Snoozleums, stepped into the fatal berth numberone, and paid no heed to the dangling ribbons. Mallory, eager torestore himself to her love by loving her dog, crowded closer to herside, making a hypocritical ado over the pup.
Everybody was popping his or her face out to learn the cause of suchclamor. Among the bodiless heads suspended along the curtains, likeDyak trophies, appeared the great mask of Little Jimmie Wellington. Hehad been unable to sleep for mourning the wanton waste of that lovelyrice-trap.
When he peered forth, his eyes hardly believed themselves. The elusivebride and groom were actually in the trap--the hen pheasant and thechanticleer. But the net did not fall. He waited to see them sit down,and spring the infernal machine. But they would not sit.
In fact, Marjorie was muttering to Harry--tenderly, now, since he hadwon her back by his efforts to console Snoozleums--she was mutteringtenderly:
"We must not be seen together, honey. Go away, I'll see you in themorning."
And Mallory was saying with bitterest resignation: "Good night--myfriend."
And they were shaking hands! This incredible bridal couple was shakinghands with itself--disintegrating! Then Wellington determined to do atleast his duty by the sacred rites.
The gaping passengers saw what was probably the largest pair ofpyjamas in Chicago. They saw Little Jimmie, smothering back hisgiggles like a schoolboy, tiptoe from his berth, enter the next berth,brushing the porter aside, climb on the seat, and clutch the ribbonthat pulled the stopper from the trap.
Down upon the unsuspecting elopers came this miraculous cloudburst ofironical rice, and with it came Little Jimmie Wellington, who lostwhat little balance he had, and catapulted into their midst like theoffspring of an iceberg.
It was at this moment that Mrs. Wellington, hearing the loud cries ofthe panic-stricken Marjorie, rushed from the Women's Room,absent-mindedly combing a totally detached section of her hair. Sherecognized familiar pyjamas waving in air, and with one faint gasp:"Jimmie! on this train!" she swooned away. She would have fallen, butseeing that no one paid any attention to her, she recoveredconsciousness on her own hook, and vanished into her berth, tomeditate on the whys and wherefores of her husband's presence in thiscar.
DOWN UPON THE UNSUSPECTING ELOPERS CAME THIS MIRACULOUS CLOUDBURST OF IRONICAL RICE....]
Dr. Temple in a nightgown and trousers, Roger Ashton in a collarlessestate, and the porter, managed to extricate Mr. Wellington fromhis plight, and stow him away, though it was like putting a whale tobed.
Mallory, seeing that Marjorie had fled, vented his wild rage againstfate in general, and rice traps in particular, by tearing the bridalbungalow to pieces, and then he stalked into the smoking room, whereIra Lathrop, homeless and dispossessed, was sound asleep, with hisfeet in the chair.
He was dreaming that he was a boy in Brattleboro, the worst boy inBrattleboro, trying to get up the courage to spark pretty Anne Gattle,and throwing rocks at the best boy in town, Charlie Selby, who wasalways at her side. The porter woke Ira, an hour later, and escortedhim to the late bridal section.
Marjorie had fled with her dog, as soon as she could grope her waythrough the deluge of rice. She hopped into her berth, and spent anhour trying to clear her hair of the multitudinous grains. And as forSnoozleums, his thick wool was so be-riced that for two days, wheneverhe shook himself, he snew.
Eventually, the car quieted, and nothing was heard but the rumble andclick of the wheels on the rails, the creak of timbers, and thefrog-like chorus of a few well-trained snorers. As the porter wasturning down the last of the lights, a rumpled pate was thrust fromthe stateroom, and the luscious-eyed man whispered:
"Porter, what time did you say we crossed the Iowa State line?"
"Two fifty-five A.M."
From within the stateroom came a deep sigh, then with a dismal groan:"Call me at two fifty-five A.M.," the door was closed.
Poor Mallory, pyjamaless and night-shirtless, lay propped up on hispillows, staring out of the window at the swiftly shifting nightscene. The State of Illinois was being pulled out from under the trainlike a dark rug.
Farmhouses gleamed or dreamed lampless. The moonlight rippled onendless seas of wheat and Indian corn. Little towns slid up and away.Large towns rolled forward, and were left behind. Ponds, marshes,brooks, pastures, thickets and great gloomy groves flowed past as on ariver. But the same stars and the moon seemed to accompany the train.If the flying witness had been less heavy of heart, he would havefound the reeling scene full of grace and night beauty. But he couldnot see any charm in all the world, except his tantalizing other self,from whom a great chasm seemed to divide him, though she was only twowindows away.
He had not yet fallen asleep, and he was still pondering how to attainhis unmarried, unmarriable bride, when the train rolled out in airabove a great wide river, very noble under the stars. He knew it forthe Mississippi. He heard a faint knocking on a door at the other endof the car. He heard sounds as of kisses, and then somebody tiptoedalong the aisle stealthily. He did not know that another bridegroomwas being separated from his bride because they were too much married.
Somewhere in Iowa he fell asleep.