CHAPTER XV
A PREMATURE DIVORCE
Suddenly Marjorie's heart gave a leap of joy. She was having anotheridea. "I'll tell you, Harry. We'll pretend to quarrel, and then----"
"And then you can leave me in high dudgeon."
The ruse struck him as a trifle unconvincing. "Don't you think itlooks kind of improbable on--on--such an occasion?"
Marjorie blushed, and lowered her eyes and her voice: "Can you suggestanything better?"
"No, but----"
"Then, we'll have to quarrel, darling."
He yielded, for lack of a better idea: "All right, beloved. How shallwe begin?"
On close approach, the idea did seem rather impossible to her. "Howcould I ever quarrel with you, my love?" she cooed.
He gazed at her with a rush of lovely tenderness: "And how could Iever speak crossly to you?"
"We never shall have a harsh word, shall we?" she resolved.
"Never!" he seconded. So that resolution passed the Houseunanimously.
They held hands in luxury a while, then she began again: "Still, wemust pretend. You start it, love."
"No, you start it," he pleaded.
"You ought to," she beamed. "You got me into this mess."
The word slipped out. Mallory started: "Mess! How is it my fault? GoodLord, are you going to begin chucking it up?"
"Well, you must admit, darling," Marjorie urged, "that you've bungledeverything pretty badly."
It was so undeniable that he could only groan: "And I suppose I'llhear of this till my dying day, dearest."
Marjorie had a little temper all her own. So she defended it: "If youare so afraid of my temper, love, perhaps you'd better call it all offbefore it's too late."
"I didn't say anything about your temper, sweetheart," Malloryinsisted.
"You did, too, honey. You said I'd chuck this up till your dying day.As if I had such a disposition! You can stay here." She rose to herfeet. He pressed her back with a decisive motion, and demanded: "Whereare you going?"
"Up in the baggage car with Snoozleums," she sniffled. "He's the onlyone that doesn't find fault with me."
Mallory was stung to action by this crisis: "Wait," he said. He leanedout and motioned down the alley. "Porter! Wait a moment, darling.Porter!"
The porter arrived with a half-folded blanket in his hands, and hisusual, "Yassah!"
Beckoning him closer, Mallory mumbled in a low tone: "Is there anextra berth on this car?"
The porter's eyes seemed to rebuke his ears. "Does you want this uppermade up?"
"No--of course not."
"Ex--excuse me, I thought----"
"Don't you dare to think!" Mallory thundered. "Isn't there anotherlower berth?"
The porter breathed hard, and gave this bridal couple up as a riddlethat followed no known rules. He went to find the sleeping carconductor, and returned with the information that the diagram showednobody assigned to number three.
"Then I'll take number three," said Mallory, poking money at theporter. And still the porter could not understand.
"Now, lemme onderstan' you-all," he stammered. "Does you both moveover to numba three, or does yo'--yo' lady remain heah, while jest youpreambulates?"
"Just I preambulate, you black hound!" Mallory answered, in athreatening tone. The porter could understand that, at least, and hebristled away with a meek: "Yassah. Numba three is yours, sah."
The troubled features of the baffled porter cleared up as by magicwhen he arrived at number three, for there he found his tyrant andtormentor, the English invader.
He remembered how indignantly Mr. Wedgewood had refused to show histicket, how cocksure he was of his number, how he had leased theporter's services as a sort of private nurse, and had paid no advanceroyalties.
And now he was sprawled and snoring majestically among his manyluggages, like a sleeping lion. Revenge tasted good to the humbleporter; it tasted like a candied yam smothered in 'possum gravy. Hesmacked his thick lips over this revenge. With all the insolence of aservant in brief authority, he gloated over his prey, and prodded himawake. Then murmured with hypocritical deference: "Excuse me, butcould I see yo' ticket for yo' seat?"
"Certainly not! It's too much trouble," grumbled the half asleeper."Confound you!"
The porter lured him on: "Is you sho' you got one?"
Wedgewood was wide awake now, and surly as any Englishman beforebreakfast: "Of cawse I'm shaw. How dare you?"
"Too bad, but I'm 'bleeged to ask you to gimme a peek at it."
"This is an outrage!"
"Yassah, but I just nachelly got to see it."
Wedgewood gathered himself together, and ransacked his many pocketswith increasing anger, muttering under his breath. At length heproduced the ticket, and thrust it at the porter: "Thah, you idiot,are you convinced now?"
The porter gazed at the billet with ill-concealed triumph. "Yassah.I's convinced," Mr. Wedgewood settled back and closed his eyes. "I'sconvinced that you is in the wrong berth!"
"Impossible! I won't believe you!" the Englishman raged, getting tohis feet in a fury.
"Perhaps you'll believe Mista Ticket," the porter chortled. "He saysnumba ten, and that's ten across the way and down the road a piece."
"This is outrageous! I decline to move."
"You may decline, but you move just the same," the porter said,reaching out for his various bags and carryalls. "The train moves andyou move with it."
Wedgewood stood fast: "You had no right to put me in here in the firstplace."
The porter disdained to refute this slander. He stumbled down theaisle with the bundles. "It's too bad, it's sutt'nly too bad, but yousholy must come along."
Wedgewood followed, gesticulating violently.
"Here--wait--how dare you! And that berth is made up. I don't want togo to bed now!"
"Mista Ticket says, 'Go to baid!'"
"Of all the disgusting countries! Heah, don't put that thah--heah."
The porter flung his load anywhere, and absolved himself with a curt,"I's got otha passengers to wait on now."
"I shall certainly report you to the company," the Englishman fumed.
"Yassah, I p'sume so."
"Have I got to go to bed now? Really, I----" but the porter was gone,and the irate foreigner crawled under his curtains, muttering: "Ishall write a letter to the _London Times_ about this."
To add to his misery, Mrs. Whitcomb came from the Women's Room, and asshe passed him, she prodded him with one sharp elbow and twisted thecorner of her heel into his little toe. He thrust his head out withhis fiercest, "How dare you!" But Mrs. Whitcomb was fresh from aprolonged encounter with Mrs. Wellington, and she flung back avenomous glare that sent the Englishman to cover.
The porter reveled in his victory till he had to dash out to thevestibule to give vent to hilarious yelps of laughter. When he hadregained composure, he came back to Mallory, and bent over him to say:
"Yo' berth is empty, sah. Shall I make it up?"
Mallory nodded, and turned to Marjorie, with a sad, "Good night,darling."
The porter rolled his eyes again, and turned away, only to berecalled by Marjorie's voice: "Porter, take this old handbag out ofhere."
The porter thought of the vanquished Lathrop, exiled to the smokingroom, and he answered: "That belongs to the gemman what owns thisberth."
"Put it in number one," Marjorie commanded, with a queenly gesture.
The porter obeyed meekly, wondering what would happen next. He had nosooner deposited Lathrop's valise among the incongruous white ribbons,than Marjorie recalled him to say: "And, Porter, you may bring me myown baggage."
"Yo' what--missus?"
"Our handbags, idiot," Mallory explained, peevishly.
"I ain't seen no handbags of you-alls," the porter protested. "You-alldidn't have no handbags when you got on this cah."
Mallory jumped as if he had been shot. "Good Lord, I remember! We left'em in the taxicab!"
The porter cast his hands up
, and walked away from the tragedy.Marjorie stared at Mallory in horror.
"We had so little time to catch the train," Mallory stammered.Marjorie leaped to her feet: "I'm going up in the baggage car."
"For the dog?"
"For my trunk."
And now Mallory annihilated her completely, for he gasped: "Ourtrunks went on the train ahead!"
Marjorie fell back for one moment, then bounded to her feet withshrill commands: "Porter! Porter! I want you to stop this train thisminute!"
The porter called back from the depths of a berth: "This train don'tstop till to-morrow noon."
Marjorie had strength enough for only one vain protest: "Do you meanto say that I've got to go to San Francisco in this waist--a waistthat has seen a whole day in Chicago?"
The best consolation Mallory could offer was companionship in misery.He pushed forward one not too immaculate cuff. "Well, this is the onlylinen I have."
"Don't speak to me," snapped Marjorie, beating her heels against thefloor.
"But, my darling!"
"Go away and leave me. I hate you!"
Mallory rose up, and stumbling down the aisle, plounced into berthnumber three, an allegory of despair.
About this time, Little Jimmie Wellington, having completed more orless chaotic preparations for sleep, found that he had put on hispyjamas hindside foremost. After vain efforts to whirl round quicklyand get at his own back, he put out a frowsy head, and called forhelp.
"Say, Porter, Porter!"
"I'm still on the train," answered the porter, coming into view.
"You'll have to hook me up."
The porter rendered what aid and correction he could in Wellington'shippopotamine toilet. Wellington was just wide enough awake to discernthe undisturbed bridal-chamber. He whined:
"Say, Porter, that rice-trap. Aren't they going to flop therice-trap?"
The porter shook his head sadly. "Don't look like that floppersa'goin' to flip. That dog-on bridal couple is done divorced a'ready!"
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