CHAPTER III
ON THE WAY TO JAFFA JUNCTION
The allegation that Love laughs at locksmiths has become more generally accepted than verity warrants. In point of fact the locksmith has never been altogether without the honors of war, and during the last century or two he has made commendable progress in the matter of bolts and tumblers and burglar-proof devices.
Love was supervising the packing of Mary Asheton’s steamer-trunks and was particularly interested in the single suit-case surreptiously intended for the Jaffa Junction trousseau. Love giggled as he looked on, but the giggle was rather hysterical. “He likes that black gown,” said Mary, alone in her room with Love. “I wore it the evening he proposed the last time—no, it was the third from the last time.”
The small god, Love, approved of Mary. Her red-brown hair, hanging in braids, was very thick and long. About her temples were soft, tendril-like curls of the variety that is most valuable to Love in his business, because they are more enmeshing and binding than some of the other links he is supposed to forge with the aid of his stout smith, Hymen. He approved of her deep violet eyes, liquid with the electric potency of personality. He approved of her willowy slenderness and the grace of her carriage.
Love made an inventory of these assets, for like Napoleon Bonaparte he was arraying his forces against all Europe. As he realized the enormity of the proposition he sternly set his chubby features and clasped his hands at his back in a truly Corsican attitude. There was no room in the suit-case for his favorite gown! Mary Asheton sighed deeply as she acknowledged it. She felt that, in the unfortunate matter of paucity of raiment, the late Miss Flora McFlimsy of Madison Square had nothing on her.
There was a hazardous point ahead which the god was gravely considering. Mary would be entrusted to the personal care of the conductor, and that functionary might feel warranted in asking questions when his fair young charge desired to leave the train late at night, unchaperoned and unescorted. Mary was thinking of that, too. Now if “Captain” McDonald was in command of this run, all might yet be well. “Captain” McDonald knew her very well and liked her very well and was gifted with susceptibility and kindliness. But if “Captain” Fallow was in charge, peril loomed large ahead.
“Captain” Fallow spelled Duty with heavy, black, capital letters. Had he lived in the old Salem days, his hymn-singing basso would have boomed loud and devout over all lesser sounds whensoever there was a scold-ducking or a witch-burning. Mary had never run away with a man before. She felt poignantly sensible of her inexperience. The fact that she was running away with an absent man made it even harder.
Finally, she was on the train. Looking through dark windows she found herself taking a dark view of life. She was frightened. If a woman is not frightened on her first elopement, she is likely to be unfeminine. Presently the conductor came and dropped to the arm of the next chair. Providentially it was “Captain” McDonald.
“So you’re going to take a tour, Miss Mary?” was his original remark.
Mary smiled. She wanted to cry, but she had to win the “Captain,” and she had found that her smile was usually an effective way to begin. If that failed, she could cry later.
“You know, Miss Mary,” the conductor’s eyes grew reflective, “I’ve thought now and again it’s strange you don’t get married.” He hastened to add with gallantry, “I’m sure it ain’t for lack of opportunity.”
Mary gasped, then she leaned forward and laid her hand on the conductor’s arm.
“Are you a really-truly friend of mine?” she demanded in a catchy, half-sobbing voice.
“Any time you ain’t got a ticket you can ride with me,” the official assured her. “But I guess you’ll marry one of them markeeses or dooks and after that you’ll ride on them dinky European trains with tin engines.”
There are times when good men swear, merely because polite language fails of forcefulness. At such crises vigorous young women, being denied that form of superlative, have recourse to slang.
“You’ve got another guess coming,” said Mary stoutly.
“I’m pleased to hear you say so,” commended “Captain” McDonald. “There’s plenty of good young men in America.”
“I’m—I’m going to marry the best of them to-night,” confided Mary. “I’m running away this very minute! He’s going to meet me at Jaffa Junction!”
The trainman’s face clouded dubiously. The girl’s heart began beating panic time. The dice of Fate were rolling.
“Your folks don’t know about this?” he inquired.
She shook her head. “They—they drove me to it!”
“Who’s your young man?” asked the “Captain.” She informed him.
“Captain” McDonald sat pondering inscrutably for a long while. The girl’s breast heaved convulsively in suspense. The small god stood by in Napoleonic posture, but whether it was the posture of Austerlitz or Waterloo he did not himself know.
“I don’t see nothing the matter with Mr. Copewell, ma’am,” the man at last adjudicated, “but I promised to see you safe to Mercerville. It’s apt to look kind of careless-like to lose a young lady that’s put in your charge.”
“But I’m of age!”
The conductor’s face brightened. It was a new situation and he was willing to avail himself of technical defenses. “Then I guess you can do what you like, but I wish you hadn’t told me in advance.”
“I was afraid,” naïvely explained Mary Asheton, “you wouldn’t let me get off at Jaffa Junction.”
Again the train director thought deeply. Finally he announced himself. “I’m ordered to stop my train at Jaffa Junction. I don’t know who gets off there, see? But the brakeman will open up the vestibule door and—may you never regret it, ma’am!”