The Trumpeter Swan | Page 3

had
an umbrella handy, had apparently foreseen every contingency but one.
"Great guns, Kemp, why are we getting off here?"
"The conductor said it was nearer, sir."
Randolph Paine was already hanging on the step, ready to drop the
moment the train stopped. He had given the porter an extra tip to look
after Major Prime. "He isn't used to that crutch, yet. He'd hate it if I
tried to help him."
The rain having drizzled for hours, condensed suddenly in a downpour.
When the train moved on, the men found themselves in a small and
stuffy waiting-room. Around the station platform was a sea of red mud.
Misty hills shot up in a circle to the horizon. There was not a house in
sight. There was not a soul in sight except the agent who knew young
Paine. No one having come to meet them, he suggested the use of the
telephone.
In the meantime Kemp was having a hard time of it. "Why in the name
of Heaven didn't we get off at Charlottesville," his master was
demanding.
"The conductor said this was nearer, sir," Kemp repeated. His response
had the bounding quality of a rubber ball. "If you'll sit here and make
yourself comfortable, Mr. Dalton, I'll see what I can do."
"Oh, it's a beastly hole, Kemp. How can I be comfortable?"
Randy, who had come back from the telephone with a look on his face
which clutched at Major Prime's throat, caught Dalton's complaint.

"It isn't a beastly hole," he said in a ringing voice, "it's God's
country---- I got my mother on the 'phone, Major. She has sent for us
and the horses are on the way."
Dalton looked him over. What a lank and shabby youth he was to carry
in his voice that ring of authority. "What's the answer to our getting off
here?" he asked.
"Depends upon where you are going."
"To Oscar Waterman's----"
"Never heard of him."
"Hamilton Hill," said the station agent.
Randy's neck stiffened. "Then the Hamiltons have sold it?"
"Yes. A Mr. Waterman of New York bought it."
Kemp had come back. "Mr. Waterman says he'll send the car at once.
He is delighted to know that you have come, sir."
"How long must I wait?"
"Not more than ten minutes, he said, sir," Kemp's optimism seemed to
ricochet against his master's hardness and come back unhurt. "He will
send a closed car and will have your rooms ready for you."
"Serves me right for not wiring," said Dalton, "but who would believe
there is a place in the world where a man can't get a taxi?"
Young Paine was at the door, listening for the sound of hoofs, watching
with impatience. Suddenly he gave a shout, and the others looked to see
a small object which came whirling like a bomb through the mist.
"Nellie, little old lady, little old lady," the boy was on his knees, the
dog in his arms--an ecstatic, panting creature, the first to welcome her
master home!

Before he let her go, the little dog's coat was wet with more than rain,
but Randy was not ashamed of the tears in his eyes as he faced the
others.
"I've had her from a pup--she's a faithful beast. Hello, there they come.
Gee, Jefferson, but you've grown! You are almost as big as your name."
Jefferson was the negro boy who drove the horses. There was a great
splashing of red mud as he drew up. The flaps of the surrey closed it in.
Jefferson's eyes were twinkling beads as he greeted his master. "I sure
is glad to see you, Mr. Randy. Miss Caroline, she say there was another
gemp'mun?"
"He's here--Major Prime. You run in there and look after his bags."
Randy unbuttoned the flaps and gave a gasp of astonishment:
"Becky--Becky Bannister!"
In another moment she was out on the platform, and he was holding her
hands, protesting in the meantime, "You'll get wet, my dear----"
"Oh, I want to be rained on, Randy. It's so heavenly to have you home.
I caught Jefferson on the way down. I didn't even wait to get my hat."
[Illustration: "It's so heavenly to have you home."]
She did not need a hat. It would have hidden her hair. George Dalton,
watching her from the door, decided that he had never seen such hair,
bronze, parted on the side, with a thick wave across the forehead, it
shaded eyes which were clear wells of light.
She was a little thing with a quality in her youth which made one think
of the year at the spring, of the day at morn, of Botticelli's Simonetta,
of Shelley's lark, of Wordsworth's daffodils, of Keats' Eve of St.
Agnes--of all the lovely radiant things of which the