<p><SPAN name="chap03"></SPAN></p>
<h3> CHAPTER III <br/> JOURNEYS END IN—TAXI BILLS </h3>
<p>No matter how swiftly your train has sped
through the Carolinas and Georgia, when
it crosses the line into Florida a wasting languor
overtakes it. Then it hesitates, sighs and creeps
across the fiat yellow landscape like an aged
alligator. Now and again it stops completely in the
midst of nothing, as who should say: "You came
down to see the South, didn't you? Well, look
about you."</p>
<p>The Palm Beach Special on which Mr. Minot
rode was no exception to this rule. It entered
Florida and a state of innocuous desuetude at one
and the same time. After a tremendous struggle,
it gasped its way into Jacksonville about nine
o'clock of the Monday morning following.
Reluctant as Romeo in his famous exit from Juliet's
boudoir, it got out of Jacksonville an hour later.
And San Marco was just two hours away, according
to that excellent book of light fiction so
widely read in the South—the time-table.</p>
<p>It seemed to Dick Minot that he had been looking
out of a car window for a couple of eternities.
Save for the diversion at Jacksonville, nothing
had happened to brighten that long and wearisome
journey. He wanted, now, to glance across
the car aisle toward the diversion at Jacksonville.
Yet it hardly seemed polite—so soon. Wherefore
he continued to gaze out at the monotonous landscape.</p>
<p>For half a mile the train served its masters.
Then, with a pathetic groan, it paused. Still
Mr. Minot gazed out the window. He gazed so long
that he saw a family of razor-backs, passed a
quarter of a mile back, catch up with the train
and trot scornfully by. After that he kept his
eyes on the live oaks and evergreens, to whose
topmost branches hung gray moss like whiskers
on a western senator.</p>
<p>Then he could stand it no longer. He turned
and looked upon the diversion at Jacksonville.
Gentlemen of the jury—she was beautiful. The
custodian of a library of books on sociology could
have seen that with half an astigmatic eye. Her
copper-colored hair flashed alluringly in that
sunny car; the curve of her cheek would have
created a sensation in the neighborhood where
burning Sappho loved and sang. Dick Minot's
heart beat faster, repeating the performance it
had staged when she boarded the train at Jacksonville.</p>
<p>Beautiful, yes—but she fidgeted. She had
fidgeted madly in the station at Jacksonville
during that hour's wait; now even more madly she
bounced about on that plush seat. She opened
and shut magazines, she straightened her pleasant
little hat, she gazed in agony out the window.
Beauty such as hers should have been framed
in a serene and haughty dignity. Hers happened
to be framed in a frenzy of fidget.</p>
<p>In its infinite wisdom, the train saw fit to start
again. With a sigh of relief, the girl sank back
upon her seat of torture. Mr. Minot turned again
to the uneventful landscape. More yellow sand,
more bearded oaks and evergreens. And in a
moment, the family of razor-backs, plodding
along beside the track with a determined
demeanor that said as plainly as words: "You may
go ahead—but we shall see what we shall see."</p>
<p>Excellent train, it seemed fairly to fly. For a
little while. Then another stop. Beauty wildly
anxious on the seat of ancient plush. Another
start—a stop—and a worried but musical voice
in Dick Minot's ear:</p>
<p>"I beg your pardon—but what should you say
are this train's chances for reaching San Marco
by one o'clock?"</p>
<p>Minot turned. Brown eyes and troubled ones
looked into his. A dimple twitched beside an
adorable mouth. Fortunate Florida, peopled
with girls like this.</p>
<p>"I should say," smiled Mr. Minot, "about the
same as those of the famous little snowball that
strayed far from home."</p>
<p>"Oh—you're right!" Why would she fidget
so? "And I'm in a frightfully uncomfortable
position. I simply must reach San Marco for
luncheon at one. I must!" She clenched her
small hands. "It's the most important luncheon
of my life. What shall I do?"</p>
<p>Mr. Minot glanced at his watch.</p>
<p>"It is now twenty minutes of twelve," he said.
"My advice to you is to order lunch on the
train."</p>
<p>"It was so foolish of me," cried the girl. "I
ran up to Jacksonville in a friend's motor to do a
little shopping. I should have known better. I'm
always doing things like this."</p>
<p>And she looked at Dick Minot accusingly, as
though it were he who always put her up to them.</p>
<p>"I'm awfully sorry, really," Minot said. He
felt quite uncomfortable about it.</p>
<p>"And can't you suggest anything?"—pleadingly,
almost tearfully.</p>
<p>"Not at this moment. I'll try, though. Look!" He
pointed out the window. "That family of
razor-backs has caught up with us four times
already."</p>
<p>"What abominable service," the girl cried.
"But—aren't they cunning? The little ones, I
mean."</p>
<p>And she stood looking out with a wonderful
tenderness in her eyes, which, considering the
small creatures upon which it was lavished, was
almost ludicrous.</p>
<p>"Off again," cried Minot.</p>
<p>And they were. The girl sat nervously on the
edge of her seat, with the expression of one who
meant to keep the train going by mental suggestion.
Five cheerful minutes passed in rapid transit.
And then—another abrupt stop.</p>
<p>"Almost like a football game," said Minot
blithely to the distressed lady across the aisle.
"Third down—five yards to go. Oh, by jove,
there's a town on my side."</p>
<p>"Not a trace of a town on mine," she replied.</p>
<p>"It's the dreariest, saddest town I ever saw,"
Minot remarked. "So of course its name is
Sunbeam. And look—what do you see—there beside
the station!"</p>
<p>"An automobile!" the girl cried.</p>
<p>"Well, an automobile's ancestor, at any rate,"
laughed Minot. "Vintage of 1905. Say—I have
a suggestion now. If the chauffeur thinks he can
get you—I mean, us—to San Marco by one
o'clock, shall we—"</p>
<p>But the girl was already on her way.</p>
<p>"Come on!" Her eyes were bright with excitement.
"We—oh, dear—the old train's started
again."</p>
<p>"No matter—I'll stop it!" Minot reached for
the bell cord.</p>
<p>"But do you dare—can't you be arrested?"</p>
<p>"Too late—I've done it. Let me help you with
those magazines. Quick! This way."</p>
<p>On the platform they met an irate conductor,
red and puffing.</p>
<p>"Say—who stopped this train?" he bellowed.</p>
<p>"I don't know—who usually stops it?" Minot
replied, and he and the girl slid by the uniform
to the safety of Sunbeam.</p>
<p>The lean, lank, weary native who lolled beside
the passé automobile was startled speechless for
a moment by the sight of two such attractive
visitors in his unattractive town. Then he remembered.</p>
<p>"Want a taxi, mister?" he inquired. "Take
you up to the Sunbeam House for a quarter
apiece—"</p>
<p>"Yes, we do want a taxi—" Minot began.</p>
<p>"To San Marco," cried the girl breathlessly.
"Can you get us there by one o'clock?"</p>
<p>"To—to—say, lady," stammered the rustic
chauffeur. "That train you just got off of is
going to San Marco."</p>
<p>"Oh, no, it isn't," Minot explained. "We know
better. It's going out into the country to lie down
under a shade tree and rest."</p>
<p>"The train is too slow," said the girl. "I must
be in San Marco before one o'clock. Can you get
me—us—there by then? Speak quickly, please."</p>
<p>The effect of this request on the chauffeur was
to induce even greater confusion.</p>
<p>"T—to—to San Marco," he stumbled.
"W—well, say, that's a new one on me. Never
had this car out o' Sunbeam yet."</p>
<p>"Please—please!" the girl pleaded.</p>
<p>"Lady," said the chauffeur, "I'd do anything
I could, within reason—"</p>
<p>"Can you get us to San Marco by one o'clock?"
she demanded.</p>
<p>"I ain't no prophet, lady." A humorous gleam
came into his eye. "But ever since I got this car
I been feelin' sort o' reckless. If you say so, I'll
bid all my family and friends good-by, and we'll
take a chance on San Marco together."</p>
<p>"That's the spirit," laughed Minot. "But forget
the family and friends."</p>
<p>He placed his baggage in the front of the car,
and helped the girl into the tonneau. With a
show of speed, the countryman went around to
the front of the car and began to crank.</p>
<p>He continued to crank with agonized face. In
the course of a few minutes, sounds of a terrific
disturbance came from inside the car. Still, like
a hurdy-gurdy musician, the man cranked.</p>
<p>"I say," Minot inquired, "has your machine got
the Sextette from <i>Lucia</i>?"</p>
<p>"Well, there's been a lot of things wrong with
it," the man replied, "but I don't think it's had
that yet."</p>
<p>The girl laughed, and such a laugh, Dick Minot
was sure, had never been heard in Sunbeam
before. At that moment the driver leaped to his
seat, breathing hard, and had it out with the wheel.</p>
<p>"Exeunt, laughingly, from Sunbeam," said
Minot in the girl's ear.</p>
<p>The car rolled asthmatically from the little
settlement, and out into the sand and heat of a
narrow road.</p>
<p>"Eight miles to San Marco," said the driver
out of the corner of his mouth. "Sit tight. I'm
going to let her out some."</p>
<p>Again Dick Minot glanced at the girl beside
him. Fate was in a jovial mood to-day to grant
him this odd ride in the company of one so
charming! He could not have told what she
wore, but he knew she was all in white, and he
realized the wisdom of white on a girl who had,
in her hair and eyes, colors to delight the most
exacting. About her clung a perfume never
captured in a bottle; her chin was the chin of a girl
with a sense of humor; her eyes sparkled with
the thrill of their adventure together. And the
dimple, in repose now, became the champion
dimple of the world.</p>
<p>Minot tried to think of some sprightly remark,
but his usually agile tongue remained silent. What
was the matter with him? Why should this girl
seem different, somehow, from all the other girls
he had ever met? When he looked into her eyes
a flood of memories—a little sad—of all the
happy times he had ever known overwhelmed
him. Memories of a starlit sea—the red and
white awnings of a yacht—the wind whispering
through the trees on a hillside—an orchestra
playing in the distance—memories of old, and
happy, far-off things—of times when he was even
younger, even more in love with life. Why should
this be? He wondered.</p>
<p>And the girl, looking at him, wondered, too—was
he suddenly bereft of his tongue?</p>
<p>"I haven't asked you the conventional question?"
she said at last. "How do you like Florida?"</p>
<p>"It's wonderful, isn't it?" Minot replied, coming
to with a start. "I can speak of it even more
enthusiastically than any of the railroad folders
do. And yet, it's only recent—my discovery of
its charms."</p>
<p>"Really?"</p>
<p>"Yes. When I was surveying it on that stopwatch
of a train, my impression of it was quite
unfavorable. It seemed so monotonous. I told
myself nothing exciting could ever happen here."</p>
<p>"And—something has happened?"</p>
<p>"Yes—something certainly has happened."</p>
<p>She blushed a little at his tone. Young men
usually proposed to her the first time they saw
her. Why shouldn't she blush—a little?</p>
<p>"Something very fine," Minot went on. "And
I am surely very grateful to fate—"</p>
<p>"Would you mind looking at your watch—please?"</p>
<p>"Certainly. A quarter after twelve. As I was
saying—"</p>
<p>"Do you think we can make it?"</p>
<p>"I am sure of it."</p>
<p>"You see, it is so very important. I want so
very much to be there by one o'clock."</p>
<p>"And I want you to."</p>
<p>"I wonder—if you really knew—"</p>
<p>"Knew what?"</p>
<p>"Nothing. I wish you would, please—but you
just did look at your watch, didn't you?"</p>
<p>They rattled on down that road that was so
sandy, so uninteresting, so lonely, with only a
garage advertisement here and there to suggest
a world outside. Suddenly the driver ventured a
word over his shoulder.</p>
<p>"Don't worry, lady," he said. "We'll get there
sure."</p>
<p>And even as he spoke the car gave a roar of
rage and came to a dead stop.</p>
<p>"Oh, dear—what is it now?" cried the girl.</p>
<p>"Acts like the train," commented Minot.</p>
<p>The driver got out and surveyed the car without
enthusiasm.</p>
<p>"I wonder what she's up to now?" he remarked.
"Fifteen years I drove horses, which
are supposed to have brains, but this machine can
think of things to do to me that the meanest horse
never could."</p>
<p>"You promised, driver," pleaded the girl. "We
must reach San Marco on time. Mr.—er—your
watch?"</p>
<p>"Twenty-five past twelve," smiled Minot.</p>
<p>The native descended to the dust and slid under
the car. In a moment he emerged, triumphant.</p>
<p>"All O.K." he announced. "Don't you worry,
lady. It's San Marco or bust."</p>
<p>"If only something doesn't bust," Minot said.</p>
<p>Again they were plowing through the sand.
The girl sat anxiously on the edge of the seat, her
cheeks flaming, her eyes alight. Minot watched
her. And suddenly all the happy, sad little
memories melted into a golden glow—the glow of
being alive—on this lonesome road—with her!
Then suddenly he knew! This was the one girl,
the girl of all the world, the girl he should love
while the memory of her lasted, which would be
until the eyes that looked upon her now were dust.
A great exultation swept through him—</p>
<p>"What did you mean," he asked, "when you
said you were always doing things like this?"</p>
<p>"I meant," she answered, "that I'm a silly
little fool. Oh, if you could know me well—"
and her eyes seemed to question the future—"you'd
see for yourself. Never looking ahead
to calculate the consequences. It's the old story
of fools rushing in—"</p>
<p>"You mean of angels rushing in, don't you?
I never was good at old saws, but—"</p>
<p>"And once more, please—your watch?"</p>
<p>"Twenty minutes of one."</p>
<p>"Oh, dear—can we"—</p>
<p>A wild whoop from the driver interrupted.</p>
<p>"San Marco," he cried, pointing to where red
towers rose above the green of the country. "It
paid to take a chance with me. I sure did let
her out. Where do you want to go, lady?"</p>
<p>"The Hotel de la Pax," said the girl, and with
a sigh of deep relief, sank back upon the cushions.</p>
<p>"And Salvator won," quoted Mr. Minot with
a laugh.</p>
<p>"How can I ever thank you?" the girl asked.</p>
<p>"Don't try," said Minot. "That is—I mean—try,
if you will, please."</p>
<p>"It meant so very much to me—"</p>
<p>"No—you'd better not, after all. It makes
me feel guilty. For I did nothing that doesn't
come under the head of glorious privilege. A
chance to serve you! Why, I'd travel to the
ends of the earth for that."</p>
<p>"But—it was good of you. You can hardly
realize all it meant to me to reach this hotel by
one o'clock. Perhaps I ought to tell you—"</p>
<p>"It doesn't matter," Minot replied. "That you
have reached here is my reward." His cheeks
burned; his heart sang. Here was the one girl,
and he built castles in Spain with lightening
strokes. She should be his. She must be. Before
him life stretched, glorious, with her at his
side—</p>
<p>"I think I will tell you," the girl was saying.
"This is to be the most important luncheon of my
life because—"</p>
<p>"Yes?" smiled Mr. Minot</p>
<p>"Because it is the one at which I am going to
announce my engagement!"</p>
<p>Minot's heart stopped beating. A hundred
castles in Spain came tumbling about his ears,
and the roar of their falling deafened him. He
put out his hand blindly to open the door, for
he realized that the car had come to a stop.</p>
<p>"Let me help you, please," he said dully.</p>
<p>And even as he spoke a horrible possibility
swept into his heart and overwhelmed him.</p>
<p>"I—I beg your pardon," he stammered, "but
would you mind telling me one thing?"</p>
<p>"Of course not. But I really must fly—"</p>
<p>"The name of—the happy man."</p>
<p>"Why—Allan, Lord Harrowby. Thank you
so much—and good-by."</p>
<p>She was gone now—gone amid the palms of
that gorgeous hotel courtyard. And out of the
roar that enveloped him Minot heard a voice:</p>
<p>"Thirty-five dollars, mister."</p>
<p>So promptly did he pay this grievous overcharge
that the chauffeur asked hopefully:</p>
<p>"Now could I take you anywhere, sir?"</p>
<p>"Yes," said Minot bitterly. "Take me back
to New York."</p>
<p>"Well—if I had a new front tire I might try it."</p>
<p>Two eager black boys were moving inside with
Minot's bags, and he followed. As he passed the
fountain tinkling gaily in the courtyard:</p>
<p>"What was it I promised Thacker?" he said to
himself. "'Miss Cynthia Meyrick changes her
mind only over my dead body.' Ah, well—the
good die young."</p>
<p><br/><br/><br/></p>
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