CHAPTER XXIV
THE TRAIN BUTCHER
Mallory was dragging out a miserable existence with a companion whowas neither maid, wife, nor widow and to whom he was neither bachelor,husband, nor relict.
They were suffering brain-fag from their one topic of conversation,and heart-fag from rapture deferred. Marjorie had pretended to take anap and Mallory had pretended that he would leave her for her ownsake. Their contradictory chains were beginning to gall.
Mallory sat in the smoking room, and threw aside a half-finishedcigar. Life was indeed nauseous when tobacco turned rank on his lips.He watched without interest the stupendous scenery whirling past thetrain; granite ravines, infernal grotesques of architecture anddiablerie, the Giant's Teapot, the Devil's Slide, the Pulpit Rock, theHanging Rock, splashes of mineral color, as if titanic paint pots hadbeen spilled or flung against the cliffs, sudden hushes of greenpine-worlds, dreary graveyards of sand and sagebrush, mountain streamsin frothing panics.
His jaded soul could not respond to any of these thrillers, thedime-novels and melodramatic third-acts of Nature. But with thearrival of a train-boy, who had got on at Evanston with a batch ofSalt Lake City newspapers, he woke a little.
The other men came trooping round, like sheep at a herd-boy's whistleor chickens when a pan of grain is brought into the yard. The train"butcher" had a nasal sing-song, but his strain might have been thePied Piper's tune emptying Hamelin of its grown-ups. The charms offlirtation, matrimonial bliss and feminine beauty were forgotten, andthe males flocked to the delights of stock-market reports, politicalor racing or dramatic or sporting or criminal news. Even Ashton bravedthe eyes of his fellow men for the luxury of burying his nose in afresh paper.
"Papers, gents? Yes? No?" the train butcher chanted. "Salt Lakepapers, Ogden papers, all the latest papers, comic papers, magazines,periodicals."
"Here, boy," said Ashton, snapping his fingers, "what's the latest NewYork paper?"
"Last Sat'day's."
"Six days old? I read that before I left New York. Well, give me thatSalt Lake paper. It has yesterday's stock market, I suppose."
"Yes, sir." He passed over the sheet and made change, without abatinghis monody: "Papers, gents. Yes? No? Salt Lake pa----"
"Whash latesh from Chicago?" said Wellington.
"Monday's."
"I read that before--that breakfast began," laughed Little Jimmie."Well, give me _Salt Lake Bazoo_. It has basheball news, I s'pose."
"Yes, sir," the butcher answered, and his tone grew reverent as hesaid: "The Giants won. Mr. Mattyson was pitching. Papers, gents, allthe latest papers, magazines, periodicals."
Wedgewood extended a languid hand: "What's the latest issue of the_London Times_?"
"Never heard of it."
Wedgewood almost fainted, and returned to his Baedeker of the UnitedStates.
Dr. Temple summoned the lad: "I don't suppose you have the _YpsilantiEagle_?"
The butcher regarded him with pity, and sniffed: "I carry newspapers,not poultry."
"Well, give me the----" he saw a pink weekly of rather picturesqueappearance, and the adventure attracted him. "I'll take this--also the_Outlook_." He folded the pink within the green, and entered into anew and startling world--a sort of journalistic slumming tour.
"Give me any old thing," said Mallory, and flung open an Ogden journaltill he found the sporting page, where his eyes brightened. "By jove,a ten-inning game! Matthewson in the box!"
"Mattie is most intelleckshal pitcher in the world," said LittleJimmie, and then everybody disappeared behind paper ramparts, whilethe butcher lingered to explain to the porter the details of the greatevent.
About this time, Marjorie, tired of her pretence at slumber, strolledinto the observation car, glancing into the men's room, where she sawnothing but newspapers. Then Mrs. Wellington saw her, and smiled:"Come in and make yourself at home."
"Thanks," said Marjorie, bashfully, "I was looking for my--my----"
"Husband?"
"My dog."
"How is he this morning?"
"My dog?"
"Your husband."
"Oh, he's as well as could be expected."
"Where did you get that love of a waist?" Mrs. Wellington laughed.
"Mrs. Temple lent it to me. Isn't it sweet?"
"Exquisite! The latest Ypsilanti mode."
Marjorie, suffering almost more acutely from being badly frocked thanfrom being duped in her matrimonial hopes, threw herself on Mrs.Wellington's mercy.
"I'm so unhappy in this. Couldn't you lend me or sell me something alittle smarter?"
"I'd love to, my dear," said Mrs. Wellington, "but I left home onshort notice myself. I shall need all my divorce trousseau in Reno.Otherwise--I--but here's your husband. You two ought to have someplace to spoon. I'll leave you this whole room."
And she swept out, nodding to Mallory, who had divined Marjorie'spresence, and felt the need of being near her, though he also felt theneed of finishing the story of the great ball game. Husband-like, hefelt that he was conferring sufficient courtesy in throwing a casualsmile across the top of the paper.
Marjorie studied his motley garb, and her own, and groaned:
"We're a sweet looking pair, aren't we?"
"Mr. and Miss Fit," said Mallory, from behind the paper.
"Oh, Harry, has your love grown cold?" she pleaded.
"Marjorie, how can you think such a thing?" still from behind thepaper.
"Well, Mrs. Wellington said we ought to have some place to spoon, andshe went away and left us, and--there you stand--and----"
This pierced even the baseball news, and he threw his arms around herwith glow of devotion.
She snuggled closer, and cooed: "Aren't we having a nice longengagement? We've traveled a million miles, and the preacher isn't insight yet. What have you been reading--wedding announcements?"
"No--I was reading about the most wonderful exhibition. Mattie was inthe box--and in perfect form."
"Mattie?" Marjorie gasped uneasily.
"Mattie!" he raved, "and in perfect form."
And now the hidden serpent of jealousy, which promised to enliventheir future, lifted its head for the first time, and Mallory caughthis first glimpse of an unsuspected member of their household.Marjorie demanded with an ominous chill:
"And who's Mattie? Some former sweetheart of yours?"
"My dear," laughed Mallory.
But Marjorie was up and away, with apt temper: "So Mattie was in thebox, was she? What is it to you, where she sits? You dare to readabout her and rave over her perfect form, while you neglect yourwife--or your--oh, what am I, anyway?"
Mallory stared at her in amazement. He was beginning to learn whatignorant heathen women are concerning so many of the gods anddemi-gods of mankind. Then, with a tenderness he might not alwaysshow, he threw the paper down and took her in his arms: "You poorchild. Mattie is a man--a pitcher--and you're the only woman I everloved--and you are liable to be my wife any minute."
The explanation was sufficient, and she crawled into the shelter ofhis arm with little noises that served for apology, forgiveness andreconciliation. Then he made the mistake of mentioning the sickeningtopic of deferred hope:
"A minister's sure to get on at the next stop--or the next."
Marjorie's nerves were frayed by too much enduring, and it took only aword to set them jangling: "If you say minister to me again, I'llscream." Then she tried to control herself with a polite: "Where isthe next stop?"
"Ogden."
"Where's that? On the map?"
"Well, it's in Utah."
"Utah!" she groaned. "They marry by wholesale there, and we can't evenget a sample."
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