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Dorothy Dale's Camping Days

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<hr /> <h2>CHAPTER XVToC</h2> <h3>WHEN THE TRAIN CAME IN</h3> In a very dark corner of the station Tavia found a broken washbowl, and from the water pail she carried two cups full of water, with which to refresh her worn and haggard face. Sam Dixon had brought her word that she might ride back to his boarding house with him, and share his coffee, but she was to say that she was his niece, and that she was on her way to her grandmother's, "like little red riding hood," chuckled Sam, when he disclosed his plan. Tavia cared little for coffee, but she was weak, and the fear of being again left in the station alone prompted her to accept the well-meant invitation. In fact, she had in her hours of desolation become quite fond of the little old man with the blackthorn cane. "Yes, I'll go gladly," she answered, and his pleasure could not be doubted. Accordingly, when the milk train had pulled out, and the station was again locked, Tavia jumped into the narrow carriage beside the old man, and, asking if he would not like to have her drive, she pulled up the reins, and they started off. Here was a new experience. If only now she could forget the agony that Dorothy must be experiencing, it would not be so dreadful to go at this early morning hour, over the dewy roads, in the ramshackle buggy with her benefactor at her side. "At any rate," she thought to herself, "I'll have a good story to tell when I do get back to camp." "Is your place far?" she asked of Sam, more for the sake of talking than of asking. "Not so very. You see, it has always been rather rough out this way—lumbermen and the like always puttin' up at Dobson's. That's why I thought you was better off in the station, than to try to make your way about last night. And some of them rough fellows stop at my place—that's Dobson's—so while they're out now is your chance to get a hot drink." As he spoke, a rough man, indeed, passed the carriage in which Tavia and Sam were riding! Wasn't he rough! Tavia instinctively shrugged up closer to the old man beside her. "Uncle Sam, was that a—woodman?" Tavia fell in quite naturally to calling the station agent Uncle Sam. "Yep, he's one of the sort," taking care to keep his smile focussed on the man, who although he was going in the opposite direction was able to keep his eye on Tavia. "You see they are the most suspicious set—takes a man a lifetime to know them, a woman an eternity, and then she has to depend upon their good nature." Tavia smiled, and hurried the old horse until his ears "sassed her back." They jogged along—every moment nature was getting more and more wideawake, until Tavia feared she would really wake up to the magnitude of her own personal offence, everything else seemed so straightforward and so upright! Why in the world had she ever listened to the ravings of that man with the soft hat and the hard smile? After all, Dorothy must be right—and she, Tavia, was wrong. Yes, it was indisputably wrong to do the things that had seemed so smart before—things that Dorothy could never laugh at. She sighed heavily. Sam heard it. "What's wrong?" he asked, looking over his glasses, and under his wrinkles. "Oh, nothing," Tavia sighed further. "Only I am wondering what my friends are thinking—of—me—about me." "Well, there's scarcely any doubt about that think," he replied. "Like as not they think you are drowned—no good friend would ever think you were—stranded!" Sam's logic was irresistible. Tavia had not thought of this contingency; they might think her drowned! "I must hurry to get back," she said suddenly. "I wonder could I do any little work, at your boarding house, to earn the price of my—ticket?" "You couldn't manage to stay over until the afternoon, do you think? I have some mending I'd be mighty glad to get done—and then I could give you a ticket," said Sam. "Oh, that would be splendid!" exclaimed Tavia. "I would willingly wait over even if I had a chance to go sooner, for you have been so good to me, Uncle Sam," she said warmly. "I shouldn't want to go until I had done something for you." "Then it's a bargain. While you're eatin' your coffee, I'll grab up the things, and you kin mend over in the station. We'll stick to the story that you are my niece, and you kin come inside the office and mend all you like, and it ain't nobody's business. You see, sister died last year, and I ain't had nobody to fix up the things for me since." "I'll be very glad to do what I can," said Tavia, "but I never was much good at sewing. However, I'll do the very best I can, Uncle Sam." "Sure you will, and that'll be all right. Here we are. Now, you just wait while I get the horse's oats, and then we'll get ours." The house before which he drew up was of the old Colonial type—the posts had been white, and imposing at some time, but they were now neither white nor any other true color. Also, they threatened to topple over on the vines, that so kindly did their part in trying to make the old place look alive. An old man sat on the porch, smoking his pipe. Sam Dixon spoke to him as he passed around the house to get the horse his breakfast. Presently a woman, enveloped in gingham dress, and lost in a gingham sunbonnet, came out and stood in wonderment, looking at Tavia. She glared at her for a moment or two, and then, without speaking a word, entered the house again. This was not a very cordial welcome for Tavia, but she patted the horse, and pretended not to notice the slight. Then Sam came limping along with the oats in a nose bag for Major. "Now eat," ordered Sam, "and——" Then it struck him that he had not fixed on a name for his "niece." Tavia saw his embarrassment, but before she could suggest a name, he added, "Betsy, you and me's hungry too, I reckon. Let's see what Sarah has to eat in the kitchen." "All right, Uncle Sam," replied "Betsy," with a smile, "I am hungry." They entered the house, and soon were seated on the old-fashioned hickory chairs, before some steaming cakes, and equally steaming coffee. Tavia was indeed hungry, and she "fell to," as did Sam, without any unnecessary ceremony. How strange it was! But what if the folks at camp thought her drowned? At any rate she must earn her ticket back. What an eternity it seemed since she stole away to that little bridge—she could not bear to think of it now! And what would Dorothy think. Ah, how little Tavia knew what poor Dorothy was thinking at that very moment! "Now, when you're ready, we'll hop along," said Sam as Sarah came in the room, and looked to see if her guests would take more coffee. "How's things to-day, Sarah?" "Ain't you heard?" she replied ambiguously. "No, what?" pressed Sam. "Why, a girl has 'scaped from the hospital. 'Tain't very safe fer a strange girl to be around here now. It might be her," and she shot an unmistakable threat at Tavia. "Ain't never heard you speak, before, of Betsy, Sam. Where's she bin?" "Say, Sarah. Is there any money up fer findin' the girl?" he asked, and there was no mistaking his meaning. "'Cause it ain't no use fer you to—speculate on Betsy. She's no house-pital breakaway." But Sarah looked at Tavia with unveiled suspicion. Tavia felt it—and the thought that she was a stranger, and might be mistaken for the escaped girl, made her most uncomfortable. It was a relief when Sam returned from up-stairs, his articles that needed mending done up in a clumsy bundle, and his hat cocked on his head with the army badge over the back of his neck. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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