"The next boat south gets in next
week, Tuesday or Wednesday."
"Next week!" shrieked the tourist.
"When's the next boat north?" interposed the son.
"To-morrow morning."
"What time?"
"Couldn't say; you'd have to watch for her."
"That's our boat, dad," said the young man.
"But we've just _come_ from there!" snorted his father; "it's
three hundred miles back. It'll put us behind two days. I've got to be
in New York Friday. I've got an engagement." He turned suddenly to the
agent. "Here, I've got to send a telegram."
The agent blinked placidly. "You'll not send it from here. This ain't a
telegraph station."
"Where's the nearest station?"
"Fifteen mile."
Without further parley the old man turned and walked, stiff and
military, from the place. Near the end of the broad walk he met the
usual doddering but amiable oldest inhabitant.
"Fine day," chirped the patriarch in well-meant friendliness. "They
jest brought in a bear cub over to Antoine's. If you'd like to take a
look at him, I'll show you where it is."
The tourist stopped short and glared fiercely.
"Sir," said he, "damn your bear!" Then he strode on, leaving grandpa
staring after him.
In the course of the morning we became quite well acquainted, and he
resigned. The son appeared to take somewhat the humorous view all
through the affair, which must have irritated the old gentleman. They
discussed it rather thoroughly, and finally decided to retrace their
steps for a fresh start over a better-known route.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84