<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</SPAN></span></p>
<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XVIII<br/> IN THE COMPOSITE CAR</h3>
<p class="p2">It was the gentle stranger's turn to miss his guess.
He bent over the chair into which Mallory had
flopped, and said in a tense, low tone: "You look
like a t'oroughbred sport. I'm trying to make up
a game of stud poker. Will you join me?"</p>
<p>Mallory shook his heavy head in refusal, and with
dull eyes watched the man, whose profession he no
longer misunderstood, saunter up to the blissful Doctor
from Ypsilanti, and murmur again:</p>
<p>"Will you join me?"</p>
<p>"Join you in what, sir?" said Dr. Temple, with
alert courtesy.</p>
<p>"A little game."</p>
<p>"I don't mind," the doctor smiled, rising with
amiable readiness. "The checkers are in the next
room."</p>
<p>"Quit your kiddin'," the stranger coughed. "How
about a little freeze-out?"</p>
<p>"Freeze-out?" said Dr. Temple. "It sounds interesting.
Is it something like authors?"</p>
<p>The newcomer shot a quick glance at this man,
whose innocent air he suspected. But he merely
drawled: "Well, you play it with cards."
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Would you mind teaching me the rules?" said
the old sport from Ypsilanti.</p>
<p>The gambler was growing suspicious of this too,
too childlike innocence. He whined: "Say, what's
your little game, eh?" but decided to risk the venture.
He sat down at a table, and Dr. Temple,
bringing along his glass, drew up a chair. The
gambler took a pack of cards from his pocket, and
shuffled them with a snap that startled Dr. Temple
and a dexterity that delighted him.</p>
<p>"Go on, it's beautiful to see," he exclaimed. The
gambler set the pack down with the one word "Cut!"
but since the old man made no effort to comply, the
gambler did not insist. He took up the pack again
and ran off five cards to each place with a grace
that staggered the doctor.</p>
<p>Mallory was about to intervene for the protection
of the guileless physician when the conductor
chanced to saunter in.</p>
<p>The gambler, seeing him, snatched Dr. Temple's
cards from his hand and slipped the pack into his
pocket.</p>
<p>"What's the matter now?" Dr. Temple asked, but
the newcomer huskily answered: "Wait a minute.
Wait a minute."</p>
<p>The conductor took in the scene at a glance and,
stalking up to the table, spoke with the grimness of
a sea-captain: "Say, I've got my eye on you. Don't
start nothin'."
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</SPAN></span></p>
<p>The stranger stared at him wonderingly and demanded:
"Why, what you drivin' at?"</p>
<p>"You know all right," the conductor growled, and
then turned on the befuddled old clergyman, "and
you, too."</p>
<p>"Me, too?" the preacher gasped.</p>
<p>"Yes, you, too," the conductor repeated, shaking
an accusing forefinger under his nose. "Your actions
have been suspicious from the beginning.
We've all been watching you."</p>
<p>Dr. Temple was so agitated that he nearly let
fall his secret. "Why, do you realize that I'm
a——"</p>
<p>"Ah, don't start that," sneered the conductor, "I
can spot a gambler as far as I can see one. You
and your side partner here want to look out, that's
all, or I'll drop you at the next tank." Then he
walked out, his very shoulder blades uttering
threats.</p>
<p>Dr. Temple stared after him, but the gambler
stared at Dr. Temple with a mingling of accusation
and of homage. "So you're one of us," he said, and
seizing the old man's limp hand, shook it heartily: "I
got to slip it to you. Your make-up is great. You
nearly had me for a come-on. Great!"</p>
<p>And then he sauntered out, leaving the clergyman's
head swimming. Dr. Temple turned to Mallory
for explanations, but Mallory only waved him
away. He was not quite convinced himself. He
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_131" id="Page_131">131</SPAN></span>
was convinced only that whatever else anybody
might be, nobody apparently desired to be a clergyman
in these degenerate days.</p>
<p>The conductor returned and threw into Dr.
Temple the glare of two basilisk eyes. The old man
put out a beseeching hand and began:</p>
<p>"My good man, you do me a grave injustice."</p>
<p>The conductor snapped back: "You say a word
to me and I'll do you worse than that. And if I
spot you with a pack of cards in your hand again,
I'll tie you to the cow-ketcher."</p>
<p>Then he marched off again. The doctor fell back
into a chair, trying to figure it out. Then Ashton
and Fosdick and little Jimmie Wellington and
Wedgewood strolled in and, dropping into chairs,
ordered drinks. Before the doctor could ask anybody
to explain, Ashton was launched on a story.
His mind was a suitcase full of anecdotes, mostly
of the smoking-room order.</p>
<p>Wherever three or four men are gathered together,
they rapidly organize a clearing-house of
off-color stories. The doctor listened in spite of
himself, and in spite of himself he was amused, for
stories that would be stupid if they were decent, take
on a certain verve and thrill from their very forbiddenness.</p>
<p>The dear old clergyman felt that it would be
priggish to take flight, but he could not make the
corners of his mouth behave. Strange twitchings
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</SPAN></span>
of the lips and little steamy escapes of giggle-jets
disturbed him. And when Ashton, who was a practiced
raconteur, finished a drolatic adventure with
the epilogue, "And the next morning they were at
Niagara Falls," the old doctor was helpless with
laughter. Some superior force, a devil no doubt,
fairly shook him with glee.</p>
<p>"Oh, that's bully," he shrieked, "I haven't heard
a story like that for ages."</p>
<p>"Why, where have you been, Dr. Temple?" asked
Ashton, who could not imagine where a man could
have concealed himself from such stories. But he
laughed loudest of all when the doctor answered:
"You see, I live in Ypsilanti. They don't tell me
stories like that."</p>
<p>"They—who?" said Fosdick.</p>
<p>"Why, my pa—my patients," the doctor explained,
and laughed so hard that he forgot to feel guilty,
laughed so hard that his wife in the next room
heard him and giggled to Mrs. Whitcomb:</p>
<p>"Listen to dear Walter. He hasn't laughed like
that since he was a—a medical student." Then she
buried her face guiltily in a book.</p>
<p>"Wasn't it good?" Dr. Temple demanded, wiping
his streaming eyes and nudging the solemn-faced
Englishman, who understood his own nation's humor,
but had not yet learned the Yankee quirks.</p>
<p>Wedgewood made a hollow effort at laughter and
answered: "Extremely—very droll, but what I
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</SPAN></span>
don't quite get was—why the porter said——" The
others drowned him in a roar of laughter, but Ashton
was angry. "Why, you blamed fool, that's
where the joke came in. Don't you see, the bridegroom
said to the bride——" then he lowered his
voice and diagrammed the story on his fingers.</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple was still shaking with sympathetic
laughter, never dreaming what her husband was
laughing at. She turned to Mrs. Whitcomb, but
Mrs. Whitcomb was still glaring at Mrs. Wellington,
who was still writing with flying fingers and
underscoring every other word.</p>
<p>"Some people seem to think they own the train,"
Mrs. Whitcomb raged. "That creature has been at
the writing desk an hour. The worst of it is, I'm
sure she's writing to <i>my</i> husband."</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple looked shocked, but another peal
of laughter came through the partition between the
male and female sections of the car, and she beamed
again. Then Mrs. Wellington finished her letter,
glanced it over, addressed an envelope, sealed and
stamped it with a deliberation that maddened Mrs.
Whitcomb. When at last she rose, Mrs. Whitcomb
was in the seat almost before Mrs. Wellington was
out of it.</p>
<p>Mrs. Wellington paused at another wave of
laughter from the men's room. She commented
petulantly:</p>
<p>"What good times men have. They've formed
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</SPAN></span>
a club in there already. We women can only sit
around and hate each other."</p>
<p>"Why, I don't hate anybody, do you?" Mrs.
Temple exclaimed, looking up from the novel she
had found on the book shelves. Mrs. Wellington
dropped into the next chair:</p>
<p>"On a long railroad journey I hate everybody.
Don't you hate long journeys?"</p>
<p>"It's the first I ever took," Mrs. Temple apologized,
radiantly, "And I'm having the—what my
oldest boy would call the time of my life. And
dear Walter—such goings on for him! A few minutes
ago I strolled by the door and I saw him playing
cards with a stranger, and smoking and drinking,
too, all at once."</p>
<p>"Boys will be boys," said Mrs. Wellington.</p>
<p>"But for Dr. Temple of all people——"</p>
<p>"Why shouldn't a doctor? It's a shame the way
men have everything. Think of it, a special smoking
room. And women have no place to take a puff
except on the sly."</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple stared at her in awe: "The woman
in this book smokes!—perfumed things!"</p>
<p>"All women smoke nowadays," said Mrs. Wellington,
carelessly. "Don't you?"</p>
<p>The politest thing Mrs. Temple could think of
in answer was: "Not yet."</p>
<p>"Really!" said Mrs. Wellington, "Don't you like
tobacco?"
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"I never tried it."</p>
<p>"It's time you did. I smoke cigars myself."</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple almost collapsed at this double
shock: "Ci—cigars?"</p>
<p>"Yes; cigarettes are too strong for me; will you
try one of my pets?"</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple was about to express her repugnance
at the thought, but Mrs. Wellington thrust before
her a portfolio in which nestled such dainty shapes
of such a warm and winsome brown, that Mrs.
Temple paused to stare, and, like Mother Eve,
found the fruit of knowledge too interesting once
seen to reject with scorn. She hung over the cigar
case in hesitant excitement one moment too long.
Then she said in a trembling voice: "I—I should
like to try once—just to see what it's like. But
there's no place."</p>
<p>Mrs. Wellington felt that she had already made
a proselyte to her own beloved vice, and she rushed
her victim to the precipice: "There's the observation
platform, my dear. Come on out."</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple was shivering with dismay at the
dreadful deed: "What would they say in Ypsilanti?"</p>
<p>"What do you care? Be a sport. Your husband
smokes. If it's right for him, why not for you?"</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple set her teeth and crossed the Rubicon
with a resolute "I will!"</p>
<p>Mrs. Wellington led the timid neophyte along
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</SPAN></span>
the wavering floor of the car and flung back the door
of the observation car. She found Ira Lathrop
holding Anne Gattle's hand and evidently explaining
something of great importance, for their heads
were close together. They rose and with abashed
faces and confused mumblings of half swallowed
explanations, left the platform to Mrs. Wellington
and her new pupil.</p>
<p>Shortly afterward Little Jimmie Wellington grew
restive and set out for a brief constitutional and a
breath of air. He carried a siphon to which he had
become greatly attached, and made heavy going of
the observation room, but reached the door in
fairly good order. He swung it open and brought
in with it the pale and wavering ghost of Mrs.
Temple, who had been leaning against it for much-needed
support. Wellington was stupefied to observe
smoke pouring round Mrs. Temple's form,
and he resolved to perform a great life-saving feat.
He decided that the poor little woman was on fire
and he poised the siphon like a fire extinguisher,
with the noble intention of putting her out.</p>
<p>He pressed the handle, and a stream of vichy shot
from the nozzle.</p>
<p>Fortunately, his aim was so very wobbly that none
of the extinguisher touched Mrs. Temple.</p>
<p>Wellington was about to play the siphon at her
again when he saw her take from her lips a toy
cigar and emit a stream of cough-shaken smoke.
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</SPAN></span>
The poor little experimentalist was too wretched to
notice even so large a menace as Wellington. She
threw the cigar away and gasped:</p>
<p>"I think I've had enough."</p>
<p>From the platform came a voice very well known
to Little Jimmie. It said: "You'll like the second
one better."</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple shuddered at the thought, but Wellington
drew himself up majestically and called
out:</p>
<p>"Like second one better, eh? I suppozhe it's the
same way with husbandsh."</p>
<p>Then he stalked back to the smoking room, feeling
that he had annihilated his wife, but knowing
from experience that she always had a come-back.
He knew it would be good, but he was afraid to
hear it. He rolled into the smoking room, and
sprawling across Doctor Temple's shoulders,
dragged him from the midst of a highly improper
story with alarming news.</p>
<p>"Doc., your wife looks kind o' seedy. Better go
to her at once."</p>
<p>Dr. Temple leaped to his feet and ran to his
wife's aid. He found her a dismal, ashen sight.</p>
<p>"Sally! What on earth ails you?"</p>
<p>"Been smok-oking," she hiccoughed.</p>
<p>The world seemed to be crashing round Dr.
Temple's head. He could only gurgle, "Sally!"</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple drew herself up with weak defiance:
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_138" id="Page_138">138</SPAN></span>
"Well, I saw you playing cards and drinking."</p>
<p>In the presence of such innocent deviltry he could
only smile: "Aren't we having an exciting vacation?
But to think of you smoking!—and a cigar!"</p>
<p>She tossed her head in pride. "And it didn't
make me sick—much." She clutched a chair. He
tried to support her. He could not help pondering:
"What would they say in Yp-hip-silanti?"</p>
<p>"Who cares?" she laughed. "I—I wish the old
train wouldn't rock so."</p>
<p>"I—I've smoked too much, too," said Dr. Temple
with perfect truth, but Mrs. Temple, remembering
that long glass she had seen, narrowed her eyes at
him: "Are you sure it was the smoke?"</p>
<p>"Sally!" he cried, in abject horror at her implied
suspicion.</p>
<p>Then she turned a pale green. "Oh, I feel such
a qualm."</p>
<p>"In your conscience, Sally?"</p>
<p>"No, not in my conscience. I think I'll go back
to my berth and lie down."</p>
<p>"Let me help you, Mother."</p>
<p>And Darby and Joan hurried along the corridor,
crowding it as they were crowding their vacation
with belated experience.
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