Excuse Me!

by Rupert Hughes

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THROUGH A TUNNEL

  Mrs. Jimmie Wellington, who had traveled much abroad and learned inEngland the habit of smoking in the corridors of expensive hotels, hadacquired also the habit, as travelers do, of calling England freerthan America. She determined to do her share toward the education ofher native country, and chose, for her topic, tobacco as a feminineaccomplishment.

  She had grown indifferent to stares and audible comment and she couldfight a protesting head waiter to a standstill. If monuments andtablets are ever erected to the first woman who smoked publicly inthis place or that, Mrs. Jimmie Wellington will be variouslyremembered and occupy a large place in historical record.

  The narrow confines of the women's room on the sleeping car soonpalled on her, and she objected to smoking there except when she feltthe added luxury of keeping some other woman outside--fuming, but notsmoking. And now Mrs. Jimmie had staked out a claim on the observationplatform. She sat there, puffing like a major-general, and in oneportion of Nebraska two farmers fell off their agricultural vehiclesat the sight of her cigar-smoke trailing after the train. In Wyomingthree cowboys followed her for a mile, yipping and howling theircompliments.

  Feeling the smoke mood coming on, Mrs. Wellington invited Mrs. Templeto smoke with her, but Mrs. Temple felt a reminiscent qualm at thevery thought, so Mrs. Jimmie sauntered out alone, to the greatsurprise of Ira Lathrop, whose motto was, "Two heads are better thanone," and who was apparently willing to wait till Anne Gattle's headgrew on his shoulder.

  "I trust I don't intrude," Mrs. Wellington said.

  "Oh, no. Oh, yes." Anne gasped in fiery confusion as she fled into thecar, followed by the purple-faced Ira, who slammed the door with agrowl: "That Wellington woman would break up anything."

  The prim little missionary toppled into the nearest chair: "Oh, Ira,what will she think?"

  "She can't think!" Ira grumbled. "In a little while she'll know."

  "Don't you think we'd better tell everybody before they begin totalk?"

  Ira glowed with pride at the thought and murmured with all the ardorof a senile Romeo: "I suppose so, ducky darling. I'll break it--I meanI'll tell it to the men, and you tell the women."

  "All right, dear, I'll obey you," she answered, meekly.

  "Obey me!" Ira laughed with boyish swagger. "And you a missionary!"

  "Well, I've converted one heathen, anyway," said Anne as she darteddown the corridor, followed by Ira, who announced his intention to "goto the baggage car and dig up his old Prince Albert."

  In their flight forward they passed the mysterious woman in thestateroom. They were too full of their own mystery to give thought tohers. Mrs. Fosdick went timidly prowling toward the observation car,suspecting everybody to be a spy, as Mallory suspected everybody to bea clergyman in disguise.

  As she stole along the corridor past the men's clubroom she saw herhusband--her here-and-there husband--wearily counting the telegraphposts and summing them up into miles. She tapped on the glass andsignalled to him, then passed on.

  He answered with a look, then pretended not to have noticed, andwaited a few moments before he rose with an elaborate air ofcarelessness. He beckoned the porter and said:

  "Let me know the moment we enter Utah, will you?"

  "Yassah. We'll be comin' along right soon now. We got to pass throughthe big Aspen tunnel, after that, befo' long, we splounce into oldUtah."

  "Don't forget," said Fosdick, as he sauntered out. Ashton perked uphis ears at the promise of a tunnel and kept his eye on his watch.

  Fosdick entered the observation room with a hungry look in hisluscious eyes. His now-and-then wife put up a warning finger toindicate Mrs. Whitcomb's presence at the writing desk.

  Fosdick's smile froze into a smirk of formality and he tried to chillhis tone as if he were speaking to a total stranger.

  "Good afternoon."

  Mrs. Fosdick answered with equal ice: "Good afternoon. Won't you sitdown?"

  "Thanks. Very picturesque scenery, isn't it?"

  "Isn't it?" Fosdick seated himself, looked about cautiously, notedthat Mrs. Whitcomb was apparently absorbed in her letter, then loweredhis voice confidentially. His face kept up a strained pretense ofindifference, but his whisper was passionate with longing:

  "Has my poor little wifey missed her poor old hubby?"

  "Oh, so much!" she whispered. "Has poor little hubby missed his poorold wife?"

  "Horribly. Was she lonesome in that dismal stateroom all by herself?"

  "Oh, so miserable! I can't stand it much longer."

  Fosdick's face blazed with good news: "In just a little while we cometo the Utah line--then we're safe."

  "God bless Utah!"

  The rapture died from her face as she caught sight of Dr. Temple, whohappened to stroll in and go to the bookshelves, and taking out a bookhappened to glance near-sightedly her way.

  "Be careful of that man, dearie," Mrs. Fosdick hissed out of one sideof her mouth. "He's a very strange character."

  Her husband was infected with her own terror. He asked, huskily: "Whatdo you think he is?"

  "A detective! I'm sure he's watching us. He followed you right inhere."

  "We'll be very cautious--till we get to Utah."

  The old clergyman, a little fuzzy in brain from his debut in beer,continued innocently to confirm the appearance of a detective bydrifting aimlessly about. He was looking for his wife, but he keptglancing at the uneasy Fosdicks. He went to the door, opened it, sawMrs. Wellington finishing a cigar, and retreated precipitately. SeeingMrs. Temple wandering in the corridor, he motioned her to a chair nearthe Fosdicks and she sat by his side, wondering at his filmy eyes.

  The Fosdicks, glancing uncomfortably at Dr. Temple, rose and selectedother chairs further away. Then Roger Ashton sauntered in, his eyessearching for a proper companion through the tunnel.

  He saw Mrs. Wellington returning from the platform, just tossing awayher cigar and blowing out the last of its grateful vapor.

  With an effort at sarcasm, he went to her and offered her one of hisown cigars, smiling: "Have another."

  She took it, looked it over, and parried his irony with a formula shehad heard men use when they hate to refuse a gift-cigar: "Thanks. I'llsmoke it after dinner, if you don't mind."

  "Oh, I don't mind," he laughed, then bending closer he murmured: "Theytell me we are coming to a tunnel, a nice, long, dark, dismal tunnel."

  Mrs. Wellington would not take a dare. She felt herself alreadyemancipated from Jimmie. So she answered Ashton's hint with a laughingchallenge:

  "How nice of the conductor to arrange it."

  Ashton smacked his lips over the prospect.

  And now the porter, having noted Ashton's impatience to reach thetunnel, thought to curry favor and a quarter by announcing itsapproach. He bustled in and made straight for Ashton just as thetunnel announced itself with a sudden swoop of gloom, a great increaseof the train-noises and a far-off clang of the locomotive bell.

  Out of the Egyptian darkness came the unmistakable sounds ofosculation in various parts of the room. Doubtless, it was repeated inother parts of the train. There were numerous cooing sounds, too, butnobody spoke except Mrs. Temple, who was heard to murmur:

  "Oh, Walter, dear, what makes your breath so funny!"

  Next came a little yowl of pain in Mrs. Fosdick's voice, and thendaylight flooded the car with a rush, as if time had made an instantleap from midnight to noon. There were interesting disclosures.

  Mrs. Temple was caught with her arms round the doctor's neck, and sheblushed like a spoony girl. Mrs. Fosdick was trying to disengage herhair from Mr. Fosdick's scarf-pin. Mrs. Whitcomb alone was deserted.Mr. Ashton was gazing devotion at Mrs. Wellington and trying to tellher with his eyes how velvet he had found her cheek.

  But she was looking reproachfully at him from a chair, and saying, notwithout regret:

  "I heard everybody kissing everybody, but I was cruelly neglected."

  Ashton's
eyes widened with unbelief, he heard a snicker at his elbow,and whirled to find the porter rubbing his black velvet cheek andwrithing with pent-up laughter.

  Mrs. Wellington glanced the same way, and a shriek of understandingburst from her. It sent the porter into a spasm of yah-yahs till hecaught Ashton's eyes and saw murder in them. The porter fled to theplatform and held the door fast, expecting to be lynched.

  But Ashton dashed away in search of concealment and soap.

  The porter remained on the platform for some time, planning to leapoverboard and take his chances rather than fall into Ashton's hands,but at length, finding himself unpursued, he peered into the car and,seeing that Ashton had gone, he returned to his duties. He kept aclose watch on Ashton, but on soberer thoughts Ashton had decided thatthe incident would best be consigned to silence and oblivion. But forall the rest of that day he kept rubbing his lips with hishandkerchief.

  The porter, noting that the train had swept into a granite gorge likean enormously magnified aisle in a made-up sleeping car, recognizedthe presence of Echo Canyon, and with it the entrance into Utah. Hehastened to impart the tidings to Mr. Fosdick and held out his hand ashe extended the information.

  Fosdick could hardly believe that his twelve-hundred-mile exile wasover.

  "We're in Utah?" he exclaimed.

  "Yassah," and the porter shoved his palm into view. Fosdick filled itwith all his loose change, then whirled to his wife and cried:

  "Edith! We are in Utah now! Embrace me!"

  She flung herself into his arms with a gurgle of bliss. The otherpassengers gasped with amazement. This sort of thing was permissibleenough in a tunnel, but in the full light of day----!

  Fosdick, noting the sensation he had created, waved his handreassuringly and called across his wife's shoulder:

  "Don't be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. She's my wife!" He added in awhisper meant for her ear alone: "At least till we get to Nevada!"

  Then she whispered something in his ear and they hurried from the car.They left behind them a bewilderment that eclipsed the wonder of theMallories. That couple spoke to each other at least during the daytime. Here was a married pair that did not speak at all for two daysand two nights and then made a sudden and public rush to each other'sarms!

  Dr. Temple summed up the general feeling when he said:

  "I don't believe in witches, but if I did, I'd believe that this trainis bewitched."

  Later he decided that Fosdick was a Mormon elder and that Mrs. Fosdickwas probably a twelfth or thirteenth spouse he was smuggling in fromthe East. The theory was not entirely false, for Fosdick was one ofthe many victims of the crazy-quilt of American divorce codes, thoughhe was the most unwilling of polygamists. And Dr. Temple gave up histheory in despair the next morning when he found the Fosdicks still onthe train, and once more keeping aloof from each other.