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SLTS R s sNSTPRO YU ey g EREN el (ST 2ABB eiy iVR RS Te P R e R BSOei Re SR e AL oL S e T - -y x PR A BN SRR T e iA I e AT At e S BT A oRN¥AN OT, AR Ry eS T - A g. e o “..": PR e -',‘s:? 4 '9ie TTt R SRR T€ I R PRIV B e €A LK eb| SR Wy T APyl oS \\ 3: BN E = 1% L l ‘, : ', I'oe porter smiles triumphantly, and _..'"pald: “She says you can have her > Perth.” He pointed at the bridal altar. Little Jimmie Wellington just returning from the Women’s Room, where she had sought sleep in more than one of her exquisite little cigars. The familiar voice, familiarly bibulous, smote her ear with amazement. She beckoned the porter to her anxiously. "Porter! Porter! Do you know the name of the man who just buried in?" "No'm," said the porter. "I reckon he’s so broken up he ain’t got any name left." "It couldn’t be," Mrs. Jimmie mused. "Things can be sometimes," said the porter. "You may make up my berth now," said Mrs. Wellington, forgetting that Anne Gattle was still there. Mrs. Wellington hastened to apologize, and begged her to stay, but the spinster wanted to be far away from the disturbing atmosphere of divorce. She was dreaming already with her eyes open, and she sank into number six in a lotus-eater’s reverie. Mrs. Wellington gathered certain things together and took up her handbag, to return to the Women’s Room, just as Mrs. Whitcomb came forth from the curtains of her own berth, where she had made certain preliminaries to disrobing, and put on a light, decidedly negligee negligee. The two women collided in the aisle, whirled on one another, as women do when they jostle, recognized each other with wild stares of amazement, set their teeth, and made a simultaneous dash along the corridor. Shoulder wrestling with shoulder. “They reached the door marked “Women” at the same instant, and as neither would have dreamed of offering the other a courtesy, they squeezed through together in a skilful jumble. Of all the shocking institutions in human history, the sleeping car is the most shocking—or would be, if we were not so used to it. There can be no doubt that we are the most moral nation on earth, for we admit it ourselves. Perhaps we prove it, too, by the Arcadian prosperity of these two story hotels on wheels, where miscellaneous travelers dwell in complete promiscuity, and sleep almost side by side, in apartments, or comforts; separated only by a plank and a curtain, and guarded only by one sleepy negro. After the fashion of the famous country whose inhabitants earmed an eager sustenance by taking in each other’s washing, so in Sleeping Carpathia we attain a meager respectability by everybody’s chaperoning everybody else. So topsy-turvy, indeed; are our notions, once we are aboard a train, that the staterooms alone are regarded with suspicion; we question the motives of those who must have a room to themselves!—a room with a real door! that locks!! And, now, on this sleeping car, pretend. tily named “Snowdrop,” scenes were enacting that would have thrown our grandmothers into fits—scenes which, if we found them in France, or Japan, we should view with alarm as almost unmentionable evidence of the moral obliquity of those nations. But this was our own country—the one which admits that it is the part—the moralest part, the strongest middle west. This was the worst. You, you know, were not only trying to make similar immodesties, but all over the map, thousands of people, in hundreds of cars, were permitting total strangers to view preparations which have always been reserved for the most intimate and legalized relations. The porter was deftly transforming the day-coach into a narrow lane entirely surrounded by draperies. Behind most of the portieres, fluttering in the lightest breeze, and perilously following the hasty passer-by, homely offices were being enacted. The populace of this little town was going to the vorter, was putting them to sleep. Children in the nursery, and he a black mammy. The frail walls of little sanctums were bulging with the bodies of people disrobing in the aisle, with nothing between them and the beholder’s eye but a clinging curtain that explained what it did not reveal. From a peremptory here and there, disembodied feet were protruding and interlacing hands were removing shoes and other things. Women in risky attire were scooting to one end of the car, and men's shirt sleeves, or less, were shastening to the other. When Mallory returned to the "Snowdrop," his ear was greeted by the thud of dropping shoes. He found Marjorie being rapidly immured, like Poe’s prisoner, in a jail of closing walls. She was unspeakably ill at ease, and by the irony of custom, the one person on whom she depended for protection was the one person whose contiguity was most alarming—and all for lack of a brief trialogue, with a clergyman, as the tertium quid. When Mallory’s careworn face ap peared round the edge of the partition now erected between her and the abode of Dr. and Mrs. Temple, Mar jorie shivered anew, and asked with all anxiety: “Did you find a minister?” Perho:ps the Recording Angel over looked Mallory’s answer: *“Not a damn minister.” When he dropped at Marjorie’s side she edged away from him, pleading: “Oh, what shall we do?” He answered dismally and inef fectively: “We’ll have to go on pre tending to be—just friends.” “But everybody thinks we’re manr rjw.n “That’s so!” he admitted, with the ifmbecility of fatigued hope. They sat a while listening to the porter slip ping sheets into place and thumping pillows into cases, a few doors down the street. He would be ready for them at any moment. Something must be done, but what? what? CHAPTER XV. A Premature Divorce. Suddenly - Marjorie's heart gave a leap of joy. She was having another idea. *“I'll tell you, Harry. We'll pre tend to quarrel, and then—" “And then you can leave me in high dudgeon.” The ruse struck him as a trifle un convincing. “Don’t you think it looks kind of improbable on—on—such an occasion?”’ Marjorie blushed, and lowered her eyes and her voice: “Can you sug gest anything better?” “No, but—" 3 “Then, we'll have to quarrel, dark ing.” He yielded. for lack of a better fdea: "All right, beloved. How shall " ‘On: close: approach, ‘the idea daid seem rather imposaible to her. *“How could I ever quarrel with you, my love?” she cooed. He gazed at her with a rush ot lovely tenderness: “And how could 1 ever speak crossly to you?” , " “We’ never shall have-a- harsh word, shall we?” sbé resolved. “Never!” he secomed. So that Sesolution passed the house unanimously. They held hands in luxury a while, then she began again: “Still, we must 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? Good Lord, are you going to begin chucking it up?” “Well, you must admit, darling,” Marjorie urged, “that you've bungled everything pretty badly.” It was so undeniable that he could only groan: “And I suppose I'll hear of this till my dying day, dearest.” Marjorie had a little temper all her own. So she defended it: “If you are naughty, I love, perhaps you'd better call it off before it's too late.” “I didn't say so about your temper,” Mallory insisted. “You did, too, hey. You said I'd chuck this up till Joe dying day. As it is such a digression! You can stay here.” She, her feet, he brought her back with a decisive motion, and demanded: “Are you “Up in the car with Bnoozleums,” she said: “He’s the only one that is fault with me.” Mallory was stung to action by this crisis: “Wait,” he said. He leaned out and motioned down the alley. “Porter!" Wait & moment, darling. Porter!” The porter arrived with a half-folded blanket in his hands, and his usual speech, making a quick, quick, and decisive response, Mallory murmured in a low tone: “Is there an extra berth on this car?” The porter's eyes seemed to rebuke his ears. “Does you want this extra berth made up?” “No—of course not.” “Excuse me, I thought—” “Don’t you dare to think!” Mallory thundered. “Isn’t there another lower berth?” The porter breathed hard, and gave this bridal couple up as a riddle that followed no known rules. He went to find the sleeping car conductor, and returned with the information that the diagram showed nobody assigned to number three. “Then I'll take number three,” said Mallory, poking money at the porter. And still the porter could not understand. “Now, I'm understan’ you—all,” he stammered. “Does you both move over to number three, or does your—you—lady remain here, while just you preambulates?” “Just I preambulate, you blackhound!” Mallory answered, in a threatening tone. The porter could understand that, at least,  by magic When he arrived at number three, for There he found his tyrant and tormentor, the English invader. He remembered how indignantly Mr. Wedgewood had refused to show his ticket, how cocksure he was of his number, how he had leased the porter’s services as a sort of private nurse, and had paid no advance royalties. £ om . 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Revenge tasted good to the humble porter;’ it tasted like a candied yam smothered In ’possum gravy. He smacked his thick lips over this revenge. - With all the insolence of a servant in brief authority, he gloated over his prey, and predded him awake. Then mur mured with hypocritical deference: “Excuse me, but could I see yo’ ticket for yo’ seat?” “Certainly not! It's too mueh trouble,” grumbled the half asleeper. “Confound you!” The porter lured him on: “Is you shaw, you got one?” Wedgewood was wide awake now, and surly as any Englishman before breakfast: “Of course I'm shaw. How dare you?” “Too bad, but I'm obliged to ask you to gimme a peek at it.” “This is an outrage!” “Yassah, but I just naughtily got to see it.” Wedgewood gathered himself together, and ransacked his many pockets with increasing anger, muttering under his breath. At length he produced 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'm convinced,” Mr. Wedgewood settled back and closed his eyes. “I'm convinced that you are in the wrong berth!” “Impossible! I won’t believe you!” the Englishman raged, getting to his feet in a fury. “Perhaps you’ll believe Mista Tick,” the porter chortled. “He says naughta 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. orter said, reaching out for his various bags and carryalls. “The train moves and you move with it.” Wedgewood stood fast: “You had no right to put me in here in the first place.” The porter disdained to refute this slander. He stumbled down the aisle with the bundles. “It’s too bad, it’s surely too bad, but you surely must come along.” Wedgewood followed, gesticulating violently. “Here—wait—how dare you! And that berth is made up. I don't want to go to bed now!” “Mista Ticket says, ‘Go to bed!’” “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’m got on the passengers to wait on now.” “I shall certainly report you to the company,” the Englishman fumed. “Yassah, I’m sure so.” “Have I got to go to bed now? Real.” By, I—out the porter was the irate foreigner crawled curtains, muttering, “I shall write a letter to the London Times about this.” To add to his misery, Mrs. Whitcomb came from the Women’s Room, and as she passed him, she produced him with one sharp elbow and twisted the corner of her heel into his little toe. He thrust his head out with his fiercest, “How dare you!” But Mrs. Whitcomb was fresh from a prolonged encounter with Mrs. Wellington, and she flung back a venomous glare that sent the Englishman to cover. The porter reveled in his victory till he had to dash out to the vestibule to give vent to hilarious yelps of laughter. When he had regained composure, he came back to Mallory, and bent over him to say: "You 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 be recalled by Marjorie's voice: "Porter, take this old handbag out of here." The porter thought of the vanquished Lathrop, exiled to the smoking room, and he answered: "That belongs to the gentleman who owns this berth." "Put it in number one," Marjorie commanded, with a queenly gesture. The porter obeyed meekly, wondering what would happen next. He had no sooner deposited Lathrop's valise among the incongruous white ribbons, than Marjorie recalled him to say: "And, porter, you may bring me my valise!" SHE GASPED. "Oh, Daggage, what—missus?" "Our handbags, idiot," Mallory explained, peevishly. "Isn't seen no handbags of you calls," the porter protested. "You-all didn't have no handbags when you got on this car." Mallory jumped as if he had been shot. "Good Lord, I remember! We left them 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: “Our trunks are on the train ahead!” Marjorie fell back for one moment, then bounded to her feet with shrill commands: “Porter! Porter! I want you to stop this train this minute!” The porter called back from the depths of a berth: “This train doesn’t stop till tomorrow noon.” Marjorie had strength enough for only one vain protest: “Do you mean to say that I've got to go to San Francisco in this waist—a waist that 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 only linen I have.” “Don’t speak to me,” snapped Marjorie, beating her heels against the floor. “But, my darling!” “Go away and leave me. I hate you!” Mallory rose up, and stumbling down the aisle, plounced into berth number three, an allegory of despair. About this time, Little Jimmie Wellington, having completed more or less chaotic preparations for sleep, found that he had put on his pyjamas hind side foremost. After vain efforts to whirl round quickly. and get at his own back, he put out a frowsy head, and called for help. "Say, Porter, Porter!" said the porter, coming into view. “You'll have to hook me up.” The porter rendered what aid and correction he could in Wellington's hippopotamus toil. Wellington was “wide enough awake to discern undisturbed bridal-chamber.” “Say, porter, that rice-trap. Aren’t they going to flop the rice-trap?” The porter shook his head sadly. “Don’t look like that flopper’s going to flip. That dog-on bridal couple is done divorced and ready!” CHAPTER XVI Good Night, Al The car was setting suddenly into a trance, and under his peace. But there was such some uur mur and drowsy energy. Shoes continued to drop, head to pummel against upper berths, the bell to ring now and then, and ring again and 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 preparations she could for her trousseauess, husbandless, dogless first night out. Finally the Englishman, who had almost rung the bell dry of electricity, 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 notice able deliberation. “Did you ring, sah?” “ Did I ring! Paw-tah, you may draw my tub at eight-thirty in the mawning." "Draw you—what, sah?" the porter gasped. "My tub." "Bahth tub?" "Bahth tub." "Lawdy, man. Is you allowing to take a bath in the mawning?" "Of course I am." "Didn't you have one before you started?" "How dare you? Of course I did." "Well, that's all you get." "Do you mean to tell me that there is no 'tud 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 San Francisco, though.” “No tub on this train for four days!” Wedgewood sighed. “But whatever does one do in the meanwhile?” “One just waits. Yassah, one and all waits.” “It’s ghastly, that's what it is, ghastly.” “Yassah,” said the porter, and mumbled as he walked away, “but the weather is getting cooler.” He finished preparing Marjorie’s bunk, and was just suggesting that Mallory retreat to the smoking room while number three was made up, when there was a commotion in the corridor, and a man in checked overalls dashed into the car. His ear was slightly red, and he held at arm’s length, as if it were a venomous monster, Snoozleums. And he yelled: “Say, whose darn dog is this? He bit two men, and he makes so much noise we can’t sleep in the baggage car.” Marjorie went flying down the aisle to reclaim her lost lamb in well’s clothing, and Snoozleums, the returned prodigal, yelped and leaped, and told her all about the indignities he had been subjected to, and his valiant struggle for liberty. Marjorie, seeing only Snoozleums, stepped into the fatal berth number one, and paid no heed to the dangling ribbons. Mallory, eager to restore himself. If to her love by loving her dog, crowded closer to her side, making a hypocritical ado over the pup. Everybody was popping his or her face out to learn the cause of such clamor. Among the bodiless heads suspended along the curtains, like Dyak trophies, appeared the great mask of Little Jimmie Wellington. He had been unable to sleep for mourning the wanton waste of that lovely rice-trap. When he peered forth, his eyes hardly believed themselves. The elusive bride and groom were actually in the trap—the hen pheasant and the chanticleer. 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 had won her back by his efforts to compose Snoozleums—she was muttering tenderly: "We must not be seen together, horey. Go away, I'll see you in the morning." And Mallory was saying with a bit of tenderness: "Good night—my friend." And they were shaking hands! This incredible bridal couple was shaking hands with itself—disintegrating! Then Wellington determined to do at least his duty by the sacred rites. The gaping passengers saw what was probably the largest pair of pajamas in Chicago. They saw Little Jimmie, smothering back his giggles like a schoolboy, tiptoe from his berth, enter the next berth, brushing the porter aside, climb on the seat, and clutch the ribbon that pulled the stopper from the trap. Down upon the unsuspecting elopers came this miraculous cloudburst of ironical rice, and with it came Little Jimmie Wellington, who lost what little balance he had, and catapulted into their midst like the offspring of an iceberg. It was at this moment that Mrs. Wellington, hearing the loud cries of the pahicstricken Marjorie, rushed from the Women’s Room, absent-mindedly coming a totally detached section of her hair. She recognized familiar pyjamas waving in air, and with one faint gasp: “Jimmie! on this train!” she swooned away. She would have fallen, but seeing that no one paid any attention to her, she recovered consciousness on her own hook, and vanished into her berth, to meditate on the ways and wherefores of her husband’s presence in this car. Dr. Temple in a nightgown and trousers; Roger Ashton, in a collarless estate, and the porter, managed to extricate Mr. Wellington from his plight, and stow him away, though it was like putting a whale to bed. Mallory, seeing that Marjorie had fled, vented his wild rage against fate in general, and ran, by the time, to the smoking room, where Ira Lathrop, homeless and dispossessed, was sound asleep, with his feet in the chair. He was dreaming that he was a boy in Brattleboro, the worst boy in Brattleboro, trying to get up the courage to spark pretty Anne Gattle, and throwing rocks at the best boy in town, Charlie Selby, who was always at her side. The porter woke Ira, an hour later, and escorted him to the late bridal section. Marjorie One had fled with her dog, as soon as she could grope her way through the deluge of rice. She hoped, into her berth, and spent an hour trying to clear her hair of the multitudinous grains. And as for Snoozle, his thick wool was so be-riced that for two days, whenever he shook himself, he snew. Eventually, the car quailed, and nothing was heard but the rumble and click of the wheels on the rails, the creak of timbers, and the frog-like chorus of a few well-trained snorers. As the porter was turning down the last of the lights, a rumble pate was thrust from the 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, pyramidal and night-shirtless, lay propped up on his pillows, staring out of the window at the swiftly shifting night scene. The state of Illinois was being pulled out from under the train like a dark rug. Farmhouses gleamed or dreamed lampless. The moonlight rippled on endless 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 a river. But the same stars and the moon seemed to accompany the train. If the flying witness had been less heavy of heart, he would have found the reeling scene full of grace and night beauty. But he could not 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 two windows away. He had not yet fallen asleep, and he was still pondering how to attain his unmarried, unmarriable bride, when the train rolled out in air above a great wide river, very noble under the stars. He knew it for the Mississippi. He heard a faint knocking on a door at the other end of the car. He heard sounds as of kisses, and then somebody tiptoed along the aisle stealthily. He did not know that another bridegroom was being separated from his bride because they were too much married. Somewhere in Iowa he fell asleep. CHAPTER XVII. Last Call for Breakfast. It was still. Iowa when Mallory awoke. Into his last moments of heavy sleep intruded a voice like a town crier’s voice, crying: “Lass call for breakfast in the Ringing Rar,” and then, again louder, “Lass call for breakfast in Ringing Rar,” and, finally, and faintly, “Lass call for breakfast in Ringing Rar.” Mallory pushed up his window shade. The day was broad on rolling prairies like billows established in the green soil. He peeked through his curtains. Most of the other passengers were up and about, their beds hidden and beddings stowed away behind the bellying veneer of the upper works of the car. All the berths were made up except his own and number two, in the corner, where Little Jimmie Wellington’s nose still played a bagpipe monody, and one other berth, which he recognized as Marjorie’s. His belated sleep and hers had spared them both the stares and laughing chatter of the passengers. But this bridal couple’s two berths, standing like towers among the seats, had provided conversation for everybody, had already united the casual group of strangers into an organized gossip-bee. Mallory got into his shoes and as much of his clothes as was necessary for the dash to the washroom, and took on his arm the rest of his wardrobe. Just as he issued from his lonely chamber, Marjorie appeared from hers, much disheveled and heavy-eyed. The bride and groom exchanged glances of mutual terror, and hurried in opposite directions. The spickest and spannest of lieutenants soon realized that he was reduced to wearing yesterday’s linen as well as yesterday’s beard. This was intolerable. A brave man can endure heartbreaks, loss of love, honor and place, but a neat man cannot abide the traces of time in his toilet. Lieutenant Mallory had seen rough service in camp and on long hikes, when he gloried in mud and disorder, and he was to see campaigns in the Philippines, when he should not take off his shoes or his uniform for three days at a time. But that was the field, and this car was a drawing room. In this crisis in his affairs, Little Jimmie Wellington waddled into the men’s room, floundering about with every lurch of the train, like a cannon loose in the hold of a ship. He fumbled with the handles on a basin, and made a crazy bolt, trying to fathom some abatement of his fever by filling a glass at the ice-water tank and amending it over his head. To be continued.) Result of Too Much Beef. Some doctors say a regular The diet of beef makes people flit-tempered and hungry. 