Hesba Stretton - The Ultimate Christmas Library - 100+ Authors, 200 Novels, Novellas, Stories, Poems and Carols

“Oh, dear!” gasped Bess. “Do you s’pose we’re going to be hungry long?”

“They say one doesn’t notice it much after about eight days,” her chum said, chuckling.

“Ugh!” shivered Bess, “I don’t much care for your kind of humor, Nan Sherwood.”

The conductor suddenly glanced at Nan more keenly and asked, “Are you Nancy Sherwood, Miss?”

“Why, yes, sir.”

“And you go to school somewhere upon the shore of Lake Huron?” he pursued.

“Why, yes, sir.”

“We go to Lakeview Hall. And we know Linda Riggs,” blurted out Bess, remembering what the baggage-man had advised them to say to the conductor.

“Oh, indeed?” said Mr. Carter; but his interest remained fixed on Nan. “You didn’t go to school last September over this division, did you?” he asked.

“No, sir. We went from Chicago,” replied the wondering Nan.

“Your train was broke in two at the Junction to put in a car?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you do at the Junction?” asked the conductor, quickly.

“Oh, I know!” cried Bess, as her chum hesitated. “She got off the train and killed a big rattlesnake that was just going to bite a little girl— yes, you did, Nan Sherwood!”

“You’re the girl, Miss!” declared Mr. Carter, drawing out his notebook and pencil. “There have been some inquiries made for you.”

“Mercy!” ejaculated Nan. “I don’t want to hear anything more about that old snake.”

The conductor laughed. “I fancy you won’t hear anything unpleasant about the snake,” he said. “Where do you live, Nancy Sherwood?”

“I live at Tillbury,” Nan said. “But I sha’n’t be home much this vacation.”

“Where will you be, then, about the first of the year?”

“I’ll tell you,” Bess cried briskly, and she gave Mr. Carter Mr. Mason’s address in Chicago.

The conductor wrote it down carefully in his notebook. Nan was impatient.

“Can’t you find something among the express packages to help us out, sir?” she asked. “Canned goods. For instance, a case of canned milk?”

“We’ll see, Miss,” said the conductor, starting forward again. “At any rate, I’ll let you two girls have the dog.”

The people in the Pullman car, who were much more comfortably situated than those in the smoking car, or than the crew of the train hived up in the first baggage coach, were beginning to complain a good deal now. The colored porter, with rolling eyes and appealing gestures, met the conductor and the two girls.

“Ah kyan’t stan’ this no longer, Mistah Ca’tah,” he almost sobbed. “Da’s sumpin’ got t’ be did fo’ all dese starbin white ladies an’ gemmen— ya-as sah! Dey is jes’ about drivin’ me mad. I kyan’t stan’ it.”

“What can’t you stand, Nicodemus?” demanded Mr. Carter, good-naturedly.

“Dey is a-groanin’ an’ a-takin’ on powerful bad ’cause dey ain’t no dining kyar cotched up wid us yet.”

“Dining car caught up with us?” gasped Nan and Bess together.

“What sort of a yarn have you been giving these passengers, Nick?” demanded the conductor.

“Well, Ah jes’ done got t’ tell ’em sumpin’ t’ pacify ’em,” whispered the darkey. “No use lettin’ ’em think dey gwyne t’ starb t’ death. Ah tell ‘em yo’ done sent back t’ de Junction for a car-load ob eats an’ dat it’s expected t’ arrive any hour. Ya-as, sah!”

“Why, you atrocious falsifier!” ejaculated Mr. Carter.

“Wot! me?” exclaimed the porter. “No, sah! Ah ain’t nottin’ like dat— no, sah! Ah reckon Ah done save dat little man’s life. Yo’ know, dat little drummer wot’s trabelin’ wid de big man. Dey was castin’ lots t’ see which one should be kilt fo’ to be et by de odder— ”

“Oh, mercy!” screamed Bess, and stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth.

“Ya-as, indeedy, Miss! Dey was gettin’ mighty desprit. An de big feller, he says, ‘Hit don’t much matter which way de dice falls, I’m de bigges’ an’ I certainly kin holt ma own wid a little runt like you!’ He says jes’ lak’ dat to his friend, de littles’ feller.”

Nan and Bess both hid their faces behind Mr. Carter’s broad back.

“Ah got nerbous,” pursued the darkey. “Dat big man looked lak’ he was jes’ going t’ start right in on his fren’. An’ de luck turns his way, anyhow, and de lil’ feller loses. ‘I gibs yo’ ’twill six-thirty to-night,’ de big man says. ‘Dat’s ma reg’lar dinner hour, an’ I’m moughty savage ef I go much over ma dinner time.’

“Golly, boss!” added the porter, “Ah jes’ ‘bleeged tun say sumpin’, an Ah tells ’em de dinin’ kyar’ll sho’ly obertake us fo’ six-thirty. Ya’as, indeedy. An’ den, dar’s dat lady up dar wid de sour-vinegary sort o’ face. Ah jes’ heard her say she’d be fo’ced tuh eat her back-comb if she didn’t have her lunch pu’ty soon. A’ yo’ knows, Mistah Ca’tah, no lady’s indigestion is a-gwine tuh stan’ up under no sech fodder as dat.”

“You old silly!” ejaculated the conductor. “These people have been fooling you. I’ll separate those two drummers so that they won’t eat each other— or concoct any more stories with which to worry you, Nick. Come on, young ladies. We’ll see about that dog.”

“And look through the express matter— do!” begged Nan.

“Surely will,” replied the conductor. “But I expect we’ll have to tie and muzzle the express messenger.”

Bess thought this funny, too, and she giggled again. In fact, Nan declared her chum had a bad case of the “giggles” and begged her to behave herself.

“I don’t believe that castaways set out to explore their island for food in any such light-minded manner as you display, Elizabeth,” Nan observed.

“Oh, dear! I can’t help it,” Bess gasped. “That darkey is so funny. He’s just as innocent as— as— ”

“The man, Friday,” finished Nan.

“Goody! that’s who he is,” agreed Bess. “He’s Friday. Oh! if Laura Polk were only here, wouldn’t she have lots of fun with him?”

“Seems as though those two drummers were bothering poor Friday quite enough.”

They heard the little spaniel yelping the moment they opened the baggage car door.

“The poor ’ittle sing!” cooed Bess, running to the corner where the puppy was imprisoned. “Oh! how cold it is in here. It would be a little icicle, so it would be, in a little while.”

“Let’s see where he’s going, and whom he belongs to,” Mr. Carter said. “I’ll have to make a note of this, and so will Jim, the baggage-man. You want to take good care of this little tyke, for the railroad is responsible for him while he is in transit.”

He stooped down and brought his light to bear upon the tag wired to the top of the crate. “Ravell Bulson, Jr., Owneyville, Illinois,” he read aloud, making a note of it in his book.

“Oh!” ejaculated Nan.

“Oh!” repeated Bess.

Then both together the chums gasped: “That fat man!”

“Hullo!” observed the conductor, slipping the toggles out of the hasp, which kept the door of the dog crate closed. “Do you girls know the owner of this pup? You seem to know everybody.”

“We know a Mr. Ravell Bulson by sight, Mr. Carter,” Nan said quietly.

“And he’s just the meanest man!” began impulsive Bess; but her chum stopped her with a glance.

“Well! Mr. Ravell Bulson, Jr., has a fine pup here,” declared the conductor, releasing the agitated little creature.

The spaniel could not show his delight sufficiently when he was out of the crate. He capered about them, licking the girl’s shoes, tumbling down in his haste and weakness, and uttering his funny little bark in excited staccato.