<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</SPAN></span></p>
<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XXIII<br/> THROUGH A TUNNEL</h3>
<p class="p2">Mrs. Jimmie Wellington, who had traveled
much abroad and learned in England the habit of
smoking in the corridors of expensive hotels, had
acquired also the habit, as travelers do, of calling
England freer than America. She determined to do
her share toward the education of her native country,
and chose, for her topic, tobacco as a feminine
accomplishment.</p>
<p>She had grown indifferent to stares and audible
comment and she could fight a protesting head waiter
to a standstill. If monuments and tablets are ever
erected to the first woman who smoked publicly in
this place or that, Mrs. Jimmie Wellington will
be variously remembered and occupy a large place
in historical record.</p>
<p>The narrow confines of the women's room on the
sleeping car soon palled on her, and she objected to
smoking there except when she felt the added luxury
of keeping some other woman outside—fuming, but
not smoking. And now Mrs. Jimmie had staked out
a claim on the observation platform. She sat there,
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</SPAN></span>
puffing like a major-general, and in one portion of
Nebraska two farmers fell off their agricultural
vehicles at the sight of her cigar-smoke trailing after
the train. In Wyoming three cowboys followed her
for a mile, yipping and howling their compliments.</p>
<p>Feeling the smoke mood coming on, Mrs. Wellington
invited Mrs. Temple to smoke with her, but
Mrs. Temple felt a reminiscent qualm at the very
thought, so Mrs. Jimmie sauntered out alone, to the
great surprise of Ira Lathrop, whose motto was,
"Two heads are better than one," and who was
apparently willing to wait till Anne Gattle's head
grew on his shoulder.</p>
<p>"I trust I don't intrude," Mrs. Wellington said.</p>
<p>"Oh, no. Oh, yes." Anne gasped in fiery confusion
as she fled into the car, followed by the purple-faced
Ira, who slammed the door with a growl:
"That Wellington woman would break up anything."</p>
<p>The prim little missionary toppled into the nearest
chair: "Oh, Ira, what will she think?"</p>
<p>"She can't think!" Ira grumbled. "In a little
while she'll know."</p>
<p>"Don't you think we'd better tell everybody before
they begin to talk?"</p>
<p>Ira glowed with pride at the thought and murmured
with all the ardor of a senile Romeo: "I
suppose so, ducky darling. I'll break it—I mean I'll
tell it to the men, and you tell the women."
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_166" id="Page_166">166</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"All right, dear, I'll obey you," she answered,
meekly.</p>
<p>"Obey me!" Ira laughed with boyish swagger.
"And you a missionary!"</p>
<p>"Well, I've converted one heathen, anyway," said
Anne as she darted down the corridor, followed by
Ira, who announced his intention to "go to the baggage
car and dig up his old Prince Albert."</p>
<p>In their flight forward they passed the mysterious
woman in the stateroom. They were too full of
their own mystery to give thought to hers. Mrs.
Fosdick went timidly prowling toward the observation
car, suspecting everybody to be a spy, as Mallory
suspected everybody to be a clergyman in disguise.</p>
<p>As she stole along the corridor past the men's
clubroom she saw her husband—her here-and-there
husband—wearily counting the telegraph posts and
summing them up into miles. She tapped on the
glass and signalled to him, then passed on.</p>
<p>He answered with a look, then pretended not to
have noticed, and waited a few moments before he
rose with an elaborate air of carelessness. He beckoned
the porter and said:</p>
<p>"Let me know the moment we enter Utah, will
you?"</p>
<p>"Yassah. We'll be comin' along right soon now.
We got to pass through the big Aspen tunnel, after
that, befo' long, we splounce into old Utah."
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Don't forget," said Fosdick, as he sauntered out.
Ashton perked up his ears at the promise of a tunnel
and kept his eye on his watch.</p>
<p>Fosdick entered the observation room with a
hungry look in his luscious eyes. His now-and-then
wife put up a warning finger to indicate Mrs. Whitcomb's
presence at the writing desk.</p>
<p>Fosdick's smile froze into a smirk of formality
and he tried to chill his tone as if he were speaking
to a total stranger.</p>
<p>"Good afternoon."</p>
<p>Mrs. Fosdick answered with equal ice: "Good
afternoon. Won't you sit down?"</p>
<p>"Thanks. Very picturesque scenery, isn't it?"</p>
<p>"Isn't it?" Fosdick seated himself, looked about
cautiously, noted that Mrs. Whitcomb was apparently
absorbed in her letter, then lowered his voice
confidentially. His face kept up a strained pretense
of indifference, but his whisper was passionate with
longing:</p>
<p>"Has my poor little wifey missed her poor old
hubby?"</p>
<p>"Oh, so much!" she whispered. "Has poor little
hubby missed his poor old wife?"</p>
<p>"Horribly. Was she lonesome in that dismal
stateroom all by herself?"</p>
<p>"Oh, so miserable! I can't stand it much longer."</p>
<p>Fosdick's face blazed with good news: "In just
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</SPAN></span>
a little while we come to the Utah line—then we're
safe."</p>
<p>"God bless Utah!"</p>
<p>The rapture died from her face as she caught sight
of Dr. Temple, who happened to stroll in and go to
the bookshelves, and taking out a book happened to
glance near-sightedly her way.</p>
<p>"Be careful of that man, dearie," Mrs. Fosdick
hissed out of one side of her mouth. "He's a very
strange character."</p>
<p>Her husband was infected with her own terror.
He asked, huskily: "What do you think he is?"</p>
<p>"A detective! I'm sure he's watching us. He
followed you right in here."</p>
<p>"We'll be very cautious—till we get to Utah."</p>
<p>The old clergyman, a little fuzzy in brain from
his début in beer, continued innocently to confirm
the appearance of a detective by drifting aimlessly
about. He was looking for his wife, but he kept
glancing at the uneasy Fosdicks. He went to the
door, opened it, saw Mrs. Wellington finishing a
cigar, and retreated precipitately. Seeing Mrs.
Temple wandering in the corridor, he motioned her
to a chair near the Fosdicks and she sat by his side,
wondering at his filmy eyes.</p>
<p>The Fosdicks, glancing uncomfortably at Dr.
Temple, rose and selected other chairs further away.
Then Roger Ashton sauntered in, his eyes searching
for a proper companion through the tunnel.
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</SPAN></span></p>
<p>He saw Mrs. Wellington returning from the platform,
just tossing away her cigar and blowing out
the last of its grateful vapor.</p>
<p>With an effort at sarcasm, he went to her and
offered her one of his own cigars, smiling: "Have
another."</p>
<p>She took it, looked it over, and parried his irony
with a formula she had heard men use when they
hate to refuse a gift-cigar: "Thanks. I'll smoke
it after dinner, if you don't mind."</p>
<p>"Oh, I don't mind," he laughed, then bending
closer he murmured: "They tell me we are coming
to a tunnel, a nice, long, dark, dismal tunnel."</p>
<p>Mrs. Wellington would not take a dare. She felt
herself already emancipated from Jimmie. So she
answered Ashton's hint with a laughing challenge:</p>
<p>"How nice of the conductor to arrange it."</p>
<p>Ashton smacked his lips over the prospect.</p>
<p>And now the porter, having noted Ashton's impatience
to reach the tunnel, thought to curry favor
and a quarter by announcing its approach. He
bustled in and made straight for Ashton just as the
tunnel announced itself with a sudden swoop of
gloom, a great increase of the train-noises and a far-off
clang of the locomotive bell.</p>
<p>Out of the Egyptian darkness came the unmistakable
sounds of osculation in various parts of the
room. Doubtless, it was repeated in other parts of
the train. There were numerous cooing sounds, too,
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</SPAN></span>
but nobody spoke except Mrs. Temple, who was
heard to murmur:</p>
<p>"Oh, Walter, dear, what makes your breath so
funny!"</p>
<p>Next came a little yowl of pain in Mrs. Fosdick's
voice, and then daylight flooded the car with a rush,
as if time had made an instant leap from midnight
to noon. There were interesting disclosures.</p>
<p>Mrs. Temple was caught with her arms round
the doctor's neck, and she blushed like a spoony girl.
Mrs. Fosdick was trying to disengage her hair from
Mr. Fosdick's scarf-pin. Mrs. Whitcomb alone was
deserted. Mr. Ashton was gazing devotion at Mrs.
Wellington and trying to tell her with his eyes how
velvet he had found her cheek.</p>
<p>But she was looking reproachfully at him from
a chair, and saying, not without regret:</p>
<p>"I heard everybody kissing everybody, but I was
cruelly neglected."</p>
<p>Ashton's eyes widened with unbelief, he heard a
snicker at his elbow, and whirled to find the porter
rubbing his black velvet cheek and writhing with
pent-up laughter.</p>
<p>Mrs. Wellington glanced the same way, and a
shriek of understanding burst from her. It sent the
porter into a spasm of yah-yahs till he caught Ashton's
eyes and saw murder in them. The porter fled
to the platform and held the door fast, expecting
to be lynched.
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</SPAN></span></p>
<p>But Ashton dashed away in search of concealment
and soap.</p>
<p>The porter remained on the platform for some
time, planning to leap overboard and take his
chances rather than fall into Ashton's hands, but at
length, finding himself unpursued, he peered into the
car and, seeing that Ashton had gone, he returned
to his duties. He kept a close watch on Ashton, but
on soberer thoughts Ashton had decided that the
incident would best be consigned to silence and oblivion.
But for all the rest of that day he kept rubbing
his lips with his handkerchief.</p>
<p>The porter, noting that the train had swept into
a granite gorge like an enormously magnified aisle
in a made-up sleeping car, recognized the presence
of Echo Canyon, and with it the entrance into Utah.
He hastened to impart the tidings to Mr. Fosdick
and held out his hand as he extended the information.</p>
<p>Fosdick could hardly believe that his twelve-hundred-mile
exile was over.</p>
<p>"We're in Utah?" he exclaimed.</p>
<p>"Yassah," and the porter shoved his palm into
view. Fosdick filled it with all his loose change, then
whirled to his wife and cried:</p>
<p>"Edith! We are in Utah now! Embrace me!"</p>
<p>She flung herself into his arms with a gurgle of
bliss. The other passengers gasped with amazement.
This sort of thing was permissible enough
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</SPAN></span>
in a tunnel, but in the full light of day——!</p>
<p>Fosdick, noting the sensation he had created,
waved his hand reassuringly and called across his
wife's shoulder:</p>
<p>"Don't be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. She's
my wife!" He added in a whisper meant for her
ear alone: "At least till we get to Nevada!"</p>
<p>Then she whispered something in his ear and
they hurried from the car. They left behind them
a bewilderment that eclipsed the wonder of the Mallories.
That couple spoke to each other at least
during the day time. Here was a married pair that
did not speak at all for two days and two nights and
then made a sudden and public rush to each other's
arms!</p>
<p>Dr. Temple summed up the general feeling when
he said:</p>
<p>"I don't believe in witches, but if I did, I'd believe
that this train is bewitched."</p>
<p>Later he decided that Fosdick was a Mormon
elder and that Mrs. Fosdick was probably a twelfth
or thirteenth spouse he was smuggling in from the
East. The theory was not entirely false, for Fosdick
was one of the many victims of the crazy-quilt
of American divorce codes, though he was the most
unwilling of polygamists. And Dr. Temple gave up
his theory in despair the next morning when he found
the Fosdicks still on the train, and once more keeping
aloof from each other.
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