# Those Souvenir Spoons

Extracted from Harper's magazine, Vol 85, 1892, pp. 568–576.
THOSE SOUVENIR SPOONS.
BY MARGARET SIDNEY
MR. JAMES INGERSOL, a trim specimen of the modern young man about town, was off for Boston, and with the consciousness of a daintily served breakfast, settled where a breakfast should be at that hour of the morning—nine o'clock—he turned the key in his bachelor suite of apartments, and strode lightly off to the station, a block or so away.
"Old fellow, off to B., eh?" Some one on the platform clapped him lightly on the back, and Ingersol turned to see a young bank man.
"Hulloa, chappie; yes," said Ingersol.
Then they fell to talking, not noticing the two-minute warning-bell, until the banker pulled up suddenly—"There goes your train, Jim!"—to watch the other's mad career, ending in a wild plunge up to the rear-car platform, from which he waved back a triumphant "Ta-ta!"
Pushing his way in past two or three belated women, all of them stout and persistently huddling together in the aisle, Mr. James Ingersol made his way down the car length, to find every seat taken. Then he remembered with disgust that it was the Old Homestead day, and he had been careless enough to light on an excursion train.
Presently a hand, large and determined, above the intervening big hats of the women, beckoned him. "I say, mister"—and Ingersol made sure he was being talked to—"here's a seat."
"Thanks," said young Ingersol, dropping into it, and unconsciously pulling his fawn-colored top-coat well away, then he relapsed into a deep silence, while the old man on the other half of the seat stowed a big black bag underneath his feet.
"I didn't see ye," he said, lifting a red face when this was accomplished, "when ye passed, or I'd 'a' took this off an' give ye the seat then."
Ingersol bowed, as if it were a matter of no consequence, and looked out the opposite window, wholly lost to the landscape.
"Ye see, I thought I'd better take 'dvantage of the cheap rate," said his seatmate, after a resonant blow of his nose on his red bandanna. "I warn't 'xactly ready to come to-day, but ma and Hetty wanted to see th' Old Homestead, an' so I concluded I'd let 'em. Ever seen it?" and he brought a pair of keen blue eyes under their shaggy beetling brows to bear on the young man.
"Yes," said Ingersol, in a low voice, in an agony lest some of his set should catch the monosyllable. Then he turned decidedly away to get a better view of the autumn foliage past which the train was whirling.
"Sho, now! ye have?" exclaimed the old man, in what seemed to Ingersol stentorian tones. "I want to know! Now ye can tell me suthin' about it."
"I don't care to talk, sir," declared Ingersol, abruptly, and glaring into the interested face.
The old man's heavy jaw fell. "Ye needn't get mad 'cause I asked ye a civil question," he said. "Gosh durn it! I don't want ye to talk if ye don't want to. Ye can set, an' I won't trouble ye agin;" and he hunched up the square shoulder next to Ingersol.
The newsboy coming in at the moment, Ingersol fell upon the morning paper, and tried to lose himself in its columns. But it was soon used up, as he had lost all interest in the latest bank "smash-ups," of which the paper was full, so he allowed it to drop to the floor, and finding no special pleasure in the direction of the old man, he confined his attention to the opposite side of the car, idly letting his gaze wander over the motley array of passengers.
Suddenly he heard a pleasant voice say, "It's no matter," and something spun past him, to fall on the aisle floor; and turning abruptly, he looked squarely into the face of a young girl, over whose pink cheeks a frown was struggling with a sunny smile. She was bareheaded, little fluffy rings of light hair, as if glad to be released, waving softly away from the neat braids, while she stretched out involuntarily both hands to the wandering hat. The cause of all this disturbance—a big woman who had risen to her feet and twitched out a bundle from the rack above, not careful what her outside elbow was about—had turned around with a makeshift of an apology, as awkward as the act itself, bringing out the exclamation that Ingersol heard.
"Allow me," he said, springing forward to pick up the hat. He had time before he handed it to her to notice that it was gray; that it was soft and womanly, and not one of the horrible things that his soul detested, affected by some women, and that made him think of the turf. And as he restored it, while lifting his hand to his own hat, he scanned the face of the girl to whom it belonged.
What he saw, he thoroughly liked. It wasn't because she was pretty, for the face under the gray hat was one that few men would turn back to for another look; and her clothes were not of that kind or make that would render their wearer superior to beauty's aid. It was the face of a girl secure in herself, and with a sweet temper for the rest of the world.
"Egad!" thought James Ingersol, standing in the car aisle, as he pulled his top-coat together, and gave a little stamp to throw the rest of his freshly pressed clothes into the proper walking shape, "I wonder what other girl would have stood having that old fury knock her hat off before a earful of people?"
In the confusion of the crowd, when the train reached Boston, he lost sight of the gray hat, and taking a Tremont Street car, was soon uptown and immersed in his own affairs for the day.
About quarter of seven o'clock, after a little dinner at Parker's with a New York friend who was going out on the night express, Ingersol ran down Tremont Street, skipped up the stairs of an office building, and put his head into a dingy little office on the third floor.
"That's jolly, Charley! Got them?"
"Yes," said Charley, a stolid young man, with a pair of cheeks that would have graced a beer-garden, and not removing his meerschaum from between his teeth.
"Hurry up, old fellow, and produce them," said Ingersol, feverishly. "Hang it! will nothing rouse you?" giving him a clap between the shoulders. "I've to take the 7.30 train out, man!"
"That so?" observed Charley, moderately. "Well, you've oceans of time yet," glancing at the clock on the mantel.
"Go ahead!" roared Ingersol at him; "this road is infernally and eternally blocked at this time, and you know it. Hurry up!"
So Charley, by dint of the most vigorous English and several physical reminders on his phlegmatic person, consented to get his lower members down from the table, and going over to a corner safe, he unlocked it, and produced a good-sized box, which, when set upon the table and opened, revealed about as handsome a collection of souvenir spoons, big and little, as could be found in the town of Boston. There were a good two dozen of them of all sorts, each marked with the monogram "M. D."
"Pretty, ain't they?" said Charley, biting his meerschaum hard, and lifting himself up on his toes while he spread his stout legs apart, he thrust his hands in his pockets and gazed at them.
"I should say so!" declared Ingersol, with a gleam of delight. "Well, do 'em up, there's a good fellow," nervously twitching at his watch. "Whew! it's seven o'clock!"
"What the Dickens is the matter with you, anyway, to-night?" demanded Charley, not stirring a peg. "There, ain't that a fine one, though!" balancing a witch spoon critically on his thumb.
"I must catch that 7.30 train, I tell you," howled Ingersol, in a fever. "Give the box here. I'll tie it up on the way."
"And spill every blessed spoon in the lot," growled Charley, folding the paper carefully over the box. "I must say you're a queer one; after all the trouble I've taken over those blasted spoons, not to stop and give 'em half a look. There! get along with you!" tying the parcel fast, and skimming it across the table. Then he sat down, and threw his legs up in their old place.
"You're a good fellow, Charley," said Ingersol, remorsefully, and grasping the box. "It must have taken a lot of time to pick up all these things. Confound the fad! I'm no end obliged to you."
"Get along with you!" grunted Charley, biting his pipe hard.
So Ingersol got along, boarded a depot car at the corner, and swung himself and his box inside the door, the platform being crowded. Here he stood, till, unaccustomed to the care of bundles, a sudden lurch of the car made him bow suddenly into the faces of the opposite ladies, while he narrowly escaped plunging into their laps. So he deposited his box on the floor in the first convenient space he could find, and hung to the nearest strap. Just as he did so the bell was pulled, the car stopped, and in came, in that peculiar way that only an over-full street car can develop, two puffy and well-laden individuals—Ingersol's seatmate of the morning, and a woman, evidently his wife, and built on as generous a pattern as himself. Presumably the Old Homestead had yielded the pair a good time, for, although they lurched in all directions with the swaying motion of the car, bobbing over their bundles like mandarins, they chuckled and smiled all the while, breaking out in remarks of, "Yes, warn't it nat'ral, pa?" and "I never see anything so like our old farm since I was born, ma," until at last, in rounding State Street, "pa" was completely taken off his feet, and cast into the bosom of a mild-mannered gentleman sitting before him. As a result of this episode, the compassionate neighbors distributed the various bundles in their laps and on the floor, the big black bag and one good-sized square parcel in Manila paper being shoved up next to that holding the spoons, and belonging to Mr. James Ingersol.
Suddenly there was precipitated upon them one of those "blocks" that in Boston fall, like the gentle rain, "on the just and on the unjust," and after the first realization of it, exclamations and anxious surmises as to how long the thing would last, and whether certain trains could be caught, began to crop out on all sides. But the car was anchored fast, apparently with no more intention of moving than one of the paving-stones beneath.
Ingersol clung to his strap, and pulled out his watch; twenty-three minutes past seven, and the station not reached yet. One more glance at the conductor, as if he was personally to blame for the delay, and could start the thing along if he had a mind to, and Ingersol stooped down, quickly groped for his bundle between the feet of the passengers, pulled out one, and fled the long line of stalled cars, saying to himself, as he shot down the street:
"I must make it. She'll be sure to take that train."
When he rushed into the brilliantly lighted station, his train was slowly moving out. As he had begun the day's journey, so he ended it, making a mad plunge for the rear car of the returning excursion train, his bundle executing frantic curves as he held it by the string. But "Little Gray Hat" was not in that car, nor in the forward one, nor, to make a long story short, in any car, though he searched long and carefully, going twice through them all.
By that time his box of spoons began to feel heavy, so he turned into a seat, tossed his parcel up into the rack, at odds with himself and all the world, and settled down in his corner to sleep off his vexation, only rousing up in time to seize his belongings and jump from the car. And presently he let himself into his own apartments, in a bad humor enough.
"A plague take the deuced things!" he exclaimed, throwing the parcel into the nearest chair, and himself into another to draw off his dusty shoes, in no condition for anything but a home evening. "Of all nasty fads, this one of collecting spoons is—faugh!" He elevated his mustache till the points threatened to go over his thin straight nose. "I only hope Maria will give me a thank you. I'll look at the things in the morning, and see that they are all right, stick in my card, and shove 'em along. I'm too done up for it to-night."
He drew up the reading-table, and "pitched in," to use his own phrase, on a magazine serial he had begun; finished it, yawned, and decided it was time to go to bed. He pulled off his coat, and began to brush it with that nice touch that marks the fastidious young man; and turning away to hang it up, his eye fell on the parcel just where he had thrown it in the chair.
"Hang 'em all!" he ejaculated. "Those things haunt me. After all, I'll just look 'em over now, and save time in the morning."
He clipped the string with a vicious thrust of his knife blade, and tore off the paper. Inside was another wrapper, thin and broken, which had apparently made necessary the firm Manila covering; this inner one had big black letters across it. Ingersol whipped it off; out fell a brown box; and snatching off the cover, several pairs of blue woollen stockings stared up at him, while a riotous red neck-tie lay across the hose.
"By Jupiter!" exclaimed Ingersol, wildly. "Where in thunder did I get this hayseed bundle? and where is mine?"
He scratched his black hair, stared in a frenzy at the ceiling, and even ran to the door and gazed down the stairs, as if he really expected to see his parcel on the way up. Then he ran back again to paw over the bundle, and to lose himself over the cabalistic signs on the salesman's ticket within the box. But nothing gave him the least clew to the owner, nor how he was to get back his spoons, that he now saw must have been left in the car in exchange for the parcel looking so like it, that was brought in by his morning's friend, and also set on the floor.
"The old demon!" cried Ingersol between his teeth, frantically turning the box this way and that. "Ugh! that's worse than the stockings," as the necktie gleamed up at him. Then he deserted the whole thing, and pranced up and down the room, his hands folded behind him.
To say that he slept well that night would be untrue. He tossed all over the bed under the idea that he was being chased by a score of blue woollen stockings from one end of Boston to the other, while the riotous necktie cornered him in the narrowest alleys, trying to get on his neck to strangle him. So he woke up in a sad condition for the duty before him, of scouring the town for another collection of souvenir spoons to suit Cousin Maria, to whom in a rash moment he had promised such a set for her wedding next week.
He drank his coffee hastily, thinking all the while, "How would Little Gray Hat bear such trouble if it came to her?" which so held down his constantly rising temper that he was able to pick up the hateful box, which he had tied securely in its two wrappers, carefully laying the sales ticket within, and boarded the 9.30 train for Boston.
"It's fair to suppose old Hayseed lives somewhere on this line, so I'll take the infernal thing to the room for lost articles at the depot," he decided. "I'd advertise, but it'll get out and give me away; and I'd rather lose the spoons twice over than have Charley guffaw over it like a donkey," his blood turning cold at the thought.
As soon as the train puffed into Boston he went to the department above mentioned, and hugging his box under his arm, approached the official in charge. But the man turned off to somebody at Ingersol's elbow.
"You say you think the person to whom it belongs would be likely to inquire for it here?" asked the official, in a manner as if to serve the public was the furthest removed from his desire or intention.
"Oh, I think so; I do not know, but I think so," cried a voice, at sound of which Ingersol turned suddenly to gaze into the face under the gray hat that he had never been able to shake from his mind since he first looked into it. She started suddenly. "I—I have something that belongs to you, I think," said the girl, holding out a parcel as she recognized him.
Ingersol, still clinging to his parcel, stared at her. How could he offer her those dreadful stockings? There was some terrible mistake; meantime there she was in her gray hat. That was bliss enough.
"Is the article yours, sir?" inquired the official, who took that way to inform him that he was blocking up the passage.
So Ingersol stepped aside to a quiet corner, making way for her as for a princess. "You see," she said, the color coming and going on her cheek, "we felt quite sure, when they came home on a later train, that—"
"'We?'" ejaculated Ingersol, in a daze, and guilty of interrupting, and "'they?'"
"I forgot," she said, with a little laugh. "You do not know us; of course you cannot. My uncle and you must somehow have managed to exchange bundles in the street car. He saw you pick up one from the floor."
"Your uncle? Oh!" exploded Ingersol.
Then the cold perspiration started out all over him as he remembered his surly behavior to the old man.
"Yes. Well, he lost his train on account of the block, you know, so he didn't get home till very late, and that quite upset him, so he couldn't open the bundle till this morning."
"I'm glad he couldn't," breathed Ingersol, involuntarily, with the memory of the night he'd had.
"And this morning he slept late, and aunt opened the bundle; and, oh! we were so troubled when we saw how valuable it was! And please do take it, sir." She thrust it at him now eagerly.
"Well, I suppose this is your uncle's bundle, then?" said Ingersol, pulling out the one under his arm.
"Yes," said the girl, "it is," as she took it.
"I am so sorry you have been troubled," said Ingersol, gravely, and not offering to stir a step.
"Well, it is all right now," and the sunlight broke over her face as she turned to go.
"Wait just a minute, I beg," cried Ingersol. "Will you give me your uncle's address? I'm going to see him about—about something. I—I was rude to him on the car yesterday," he blurted out, growing red-faced and ashamed.
"Yes, I know," said the girl.
"You do?"
"I couldn't help hearing," she answered.
"It—it—I have no excuse to offer—it was outrageous," declared Ingersol, hoping she would comfort him and pass it over.
But she didn't offer to. "It was not right," she said, quietly.
"Right? Oh, dear me, no!" he cried, in anguish. "I don't see how I came to be such a boor," he added, in a thin, distressed tone.
She looked up, longing to soften her answer, but said nothing.
"So, if you will give me your uncle's address, I'll thank you from the bottom of my heart," he broke out at last.
She gave it—"Hezekiah Wilson, 21 Garden Street, ——, Massachusetts"—his own town—and he wrote it down carefully in his note-book, feeling as if the gate of Paradise opened into that identical Garden Street; then he lifted his hat to her with that same air of deference, and they went their different ways.
Hurrying out of the depot, he ran against his phlegmatic friend Charley, who hooked him by the arm, meanwhile staring at the paper parcel with the air of an acquaintance.
"I'd swear you are toting round those spoons, Jim," he said, with a suspicious glance at Ingersol's face.
"Suppose I am," replied that young man, airily, "any business of yours?"
"Well, hold on," cried Charley; "don't blaze up that way, Jim. Going up town? Wait a minute and I'll go with you, as soon as I get a friend I've come for," hanging to his arm.
"Can't," said Ingersol, shaking him off.
"I believe you're spooney on some one," growled Charley, left behind on the curb-stone to watch the pair of long legs skim across the street. "Dashed if I can tell what's come to Jim!" he ended, in a soliloquy.
Away flew "Jim," careless what the opinion of his friend left behind might be, and hugging his box as he hurried to collect another set of spoons. "As if anything on earth could get these away from me, now that she has had them in her keeping!" he said to himself.
Doing two or three other little errands, at last he got himself home, where he managed to kill time till he could present himself, gotten up in his best style, at 21 Garden Street.
He had some difficulty in finding it, Garden Street being a part of the town quite off from the haunts of his set, running out as it did from the unfashionable quarter. But at last there it was; and soon No. 21 was shining down at him from the door of a modest cottage, with a little plat of ground in front.
James Ingersol walked up the tiny brick walk within the gate and pulled the bell, as happy as a king. Heavy steps sounded along the entry, and the door stood open, revealing the round, pleasant face of Mrs. Wilson, who, on his asking for the old gentleman, bade him come in, with a "Set down, do, an' I'll call pa."
Before "pa" came—which he did in his shirt sleeves, determined to show the young man no extra respect in the way of dressing up, as he knew pretty well who it was, "ma" having recognized him—Ingersol had time to rapidly take note of everything in the room, and to gauge the atmosphere of "Little Gray Hat's" home. It was quite plain, but neat as a pin, and cheery from one end of the room to the other, where the canary sang in the bay-window.
"And one thing," breathed the young man, fervently. "thank Heaven! it isn't full of tidies and banners and ribbons strangling the necks of the vases."
"Ye wanted to see me, did ye, young man?" said old Mr. Wilson, coming in heavily to stand before him.
"I did," said Ingersol, rising and putting out his hand, which the old man didn't seem to see. "I—I—wanted to say—I— You received your bundle all right, I hope, sir?"
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Wilson, with a quick jerk of his head toward the back apartments; "it's here all safe."
Then she was really in the house! He took courage and began again. "Mr. Wilson, I can't say how sorry I am at my want of courtesy to you yesterday."
"Ye'd orter be," said Hezekiah Wilson, bluntly. "Young men in my day didn't go around sassing folks who had twice the sense, an' old enough to be their fathers."
"I know it," said Ingersol, humbly. "I am very sorry, sir."
"An' jest because I asked ye a civil question, ye must needs fire up, an' pull your coat away. Gosh! but ye didn't hurt me none. I only set ye down as a donkey, an' didn't want nothin' to do with ye."
"I was an ass," declared the young man, decidedly.
"That's a fact; but seein' as ye've come an' acknowledged it, why, there's my hand."
James Ingersol took the horny hand extended to him with a sudden thrust, and pressed it thankfully. "And now may I see Mrs. Wilson and—and your niece? I want to say something to her I quite forgot when we exchanged the parcels this morning."
"Who—Hetty? Oh, she's gone; you can't see her," said the old man; "but ma'll come in. Here, ma, this way, will ye?" opening the door into a back room, and running his head in.
Gone? But it was only for a little while, of course; and he would come some other time—in the evening. Only let him work his way well with the old couple, and he could have the entrée of the house. So Mr. Ingersol had leisure to compose his face and manner by the time that Mrs. Wilson, with another cap on, and a red ribbon at her throat that it had lacked before, came in, was formally introduced to the young man, and sat down opposite him, folding her plump hands in a company way in her lap.
It seemed to Ingersol as if there never would come just the right time to find out about Hetty. At last there was a pause, and he said, carelessly, "I am sorry your niece is not at home, for I want to explain to her my abrupt manner when we exchanged parcels this morning; but I will call again, if you will allow me;" with an ingratiating smile, as he turned to the old gentleman.
"Oh. Hetty won't start for home till to-morrow," said Mrs. Wilson; "an' I don't know when she'll get here again. We'd like to keep her all the time, but her folks—"
"Keep her all the time?" cried Ingersol, forgetting himself, and whirling around to the aunt. "Why—why, doesn't she live here?"
"Dear me, no!" said Mrs. Wilson. "I wish she did; we're awful lonesome without her. She lives in New York State."
"Ah!"
James Ingersol fell to chewing his mustache with inward fury, while Hetty's aunt went on, glad to find something she could use her conversational powers on. Meantime Hezekiah Wilson pulled up a big rocking-chair, and planting himself in it, never took his eyes, under their beetling brows, from the young man.
"You see, she'd got to go from here, anyway, to-morrow. That's the reason we went to th' Old Homestead yest'day. Well, when we got home last night (Mehitable came home on an earlier train, you know)"—Ingersol groaned within himself—"well, when we got home, which was pretty late, seein' we lost th' excursion train, here was Hetty with her trunk all packed, saying she must go to-day. I declare. I sat right down in that chair"—pointing to the one now holding her spouse—"an' cried like a baby."
So, then, "Little Gray Hat" was on her way to New York State when he bade her good-by so hopefully. Ingersol now was reduced to a pitiable state of mind, and the exclamation he couldn't control, he covered up with a cough.
"You see, she'd had a letter while we was gone—it was under the door—saying that she must spend the day with an old school friend in Boston, an'—"
"In Boston?" cried the young man, springing from the sofa. "Excuse me, but would you give me her address, Mrs. Wilson, please? I must see her, you know; it's absolutely imperative that I explain something about this morning."
"Ye might tell it to me, an' I could write her all about it," said the old man, dryly; "there ain't any need o' haste, I take it."
"I d'no' where she's gone," said Mrs. Wilson. "Seein' she was only goin' to be there one day, she didn't leave no address. I think 'twas Canton Street, or was it Brookline Street, pa? I've heard her speak of it time and again. Or was it Chestnut?"
"I d'no'," said pa, "anything about it."
"What was the name?" demanded Ingersol, feverishly, and playing with his hat brim.
"Hetty always called her Frances; that's all I know. She was Frances Shaw, an' she went to boardin'-school with our Hetty."
"Shaw? Thank you!" cried Ingersol, feeling quite determined that no Shaws in Boston should escape him; and he started to go. "Good-by, sir," putting out his hand to the old man.
"That was her name when she went to school," said Mrs. Wilson, hastily. "She's married now, an' I d'no' what her name is. Hetty don't call her anything but Frances. But I'll tell you where you may find her," brightening up. "She's going on the New York train to-morrow, an' you can see her at the deepo in the morning."
"In the morning? By which road?" demanded the young man.
"Why, the New York one," replied Mrs. Wilson.
"Yes, but there are two or three ways to get to New York, you know. Which does she take?" He could scarcely wait for the answer.
"No, I don't b'lieve you know anything about it, ma," said Hezekiah Wilson, giving her a look.
But Mrs. Wilson settled her cap, and gave another glance at the handsome young man. "It's from Kneeland Street, I know for certain; an' Hetty's goin' at nine o'clock, 'cause she wrote that to her brother; he's to meet her—I forget where—some queer-sounding place. Anyway, she starts from the deepo at nine o'clock."
"Thanks. I can't tell how much I'm obliged to you, Mrs. Wilson," said Ingersol, going over to take her plump hand in his. "It would be dreadful, you know, for her to go unless I explained how I—why I— It was so sudden, don't you know, her giving me the parcel, and—"
"Ugh!" grunted the old man.
"Yes, I know," said Hetty's aunt, sympathetically. "I went away once without explainin' somethin' I'd orter to my minister's wife, an' she up an' died before I ever got to see her again; so I know just how you feel. But we've got Mr. Wilson's bundle all right; you needn't worry a mite about that. Hetty sent it out by Georgy Hine; he comes out from school every aft'noon."
When, at last, James Ingersol got away from 21 Garden Street, it was to go to his room, pack a bag with his night things, write a note or two throwing up some engagements for the evening, and start for Boston.
"I might sleep too late in the morning, and miss the early train." He shivered at the thought. "So I'll run in to Parker's, and be down at the station at eight o'clock sharp."
The next morning, unable by this time to take things quietly. James Ingersol got out of bed at six o'clock, swallowing the breakfast ordered the night before as if he had scarcely a moment to live, and by half past seven he turned his back on Parker's, and at eight o'clock he rushed into the railway station.
The brilliant idea of buying "Little Gray Hat" a basket of fruit and flowers now struck him, and for the next quarter of an hour he made the proprietor of the stall wretched enough by his unreasonable demands for a fancy basket and all sorts of fruits out of season. So that when the order was filled, each felt no pining for the society of the other, and Ingersol hurried over to the waiting-room for the flowers, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for Hetty.
"We hain't got no violets," said the girl in charge of the posies. "Here's some pinks," shaking out a bunch; "they're handsome."
"Frightfully common," said Ingersol. "Why in the world don't you keep violets? Excuse me: be back in a moment," as he caught sight of a gray hat moving through the main corridor.
After he had chased it the whole length, to find it adorning the head of one of Africa's daughters, he hurried back, picked out the best rose-buds he could find in the tired-looking collection the girl offered him, and it being now 8.30 by the big depot clock, he concluded to take up his stand on the outside walk before the gates. Beyond lay the tracks, along one of which his darling must soon go.
"She can't escape me here," he muttered, as he paced back and forth, holding his basket of fruit and posies in what he considered the most careless of attitudes. Yet he had the feeling that every passenger in the little crowds surging along from the incoming cars, and all the train hands, knew just as well as he did what he was waiting for, and that they were watching him accordingly.
At last, after minutes that seemed eternities, the clock announced a quarter of nine. The gate admitting to the New York train was thrown open, and little groups hurried in to get choice seats. Ten minutes of nine, and Ingersol grew cold all over; five minutes, and he was reduced to a state of despair that could not be put into words. Late comers dashed in; affectionate friends, with kisses and good-byes, blocked the way of others more phlegmatically made up. Ingersol stood close to the gate in dull stolid misery, not all the hustling of the crowd making him surrender one iota of his space. It was only when a policeman touched his arm—"You are blocking up the way, sir"—that he appeared to notice that he was incommoding anybody.
"I am waiting for a friend," he said, stiffly.
"Can't help that. Stand back!" And the guardian of the people's rights shoved him away, just as the warning bell rang.
It was a death-knell to his last hope—that bell. The basket of fruit and flowers trembled in his hand, and everything seemed to grow dark before his eyes, when a girl rushed by, to run through the gate and down the platform. He seemed to see her as in a vision, her knot of friends screaming after her.
"Don't try; the train is going, Hetty."
Hetty? He struck the man in front of him a sudden blow on his back that made him jump one side. "That's my train!" roared Ingersol by way of explanation, dashing after her.
It was all done in an instant. He gained her side, seized her hand, the train moving now quite fast in that determined little way it has when it first feels its power.
"Don't, Hetty; you can't do it, dear;" and he drew her back.
She turned quickly, the bright glow produced by her running increased to a rosy blush. "Oh!" she exclaimed, drawing a long breath and pulling her hand away, while her blue eyes dropped.
"Forgive me for startling you," cried Ingersol, desperately. "I had to. You would have been killed. See!" he pointed to the train now rushing off, to give her a chance to recover herself. "You don't know— I've chased you everywhere," he panted, as her eyes came slowly back, to fall on the platform floor again.
"Chased me?" cried Hetty, in astonishment.
"Yes. Oh dear, here come your friends!" exclaimed Ingersol in misery, as a knot of young women, who carried sympathy written over every feature and gesture, bore down upon them along the platform. "I must get off with you a moment; I have something to tell you. Do come down this way."
"I can't," said Hetty, in real distress.
"Oh! oh!" "It's too bad!" "Dear me! I shall never forgive myself for having breakfast late." "What will you do? And your brother was going to meet you." And so forth and so on, as they surrounded Hetty.
It was a mercy that they all talked so hard and fast there was no time to introduce him, had she known his name; and a boy pulling his coat tail just at this moment—"Mister, you're a-spillin' things from your basket"—made a fresh diversion.
"Let's all help pick them up," cried Hetty, recovering herself to race after the pears and plums and late peaches that were running away.
In the confusion he gained her side. "I'll never lose sight of you again until I've told you something."
"Hetty," said one of the young women following him (the same one who had bemoaned her late breakfast), "I must go to my husband's office now. I was to meet him there, you know, after I'd seen you off; so come."
"Must you?" cried Ingersol, sharply, looking into Hetty's blue eyes.
"Yes," said Hetty. "We will all go there together, Frances. There! that is the last one, I believe," as she gave him a handful. "No; just one more;" and she ran after it, captured it, and the others bringing up their contributions of stray fruit, the basket was repacked and hung, its posy thrust into the side, on Mr. James Ingersol's arm.
"Now come, Frances," said Hetty; "we're ready. Only I must telegraph to brother Mark first."
"Let me do it," begged Ingersol, eagerly, hoping to shake off the other young women; but they followed like a flock of sheep.
"Lost my train," telegraphed Hetty. "Will take the nine-o'clock to-morrow (Friday)," addressing it to "Mark Dunbar, Palmer, Massachusetts."
"At least I know her name," said Ingersol to himself in satisfaction; "and I'll tell her mine just as soon as I get her off from these howling girls."
Out upon the street to wait for a horse-car, "the girls" still "oh-ing" and "ah-ing " over the lost train.
"I wish I could throttle that Frances," muttered Ingersol. "If ever I meet her husband, I'll pick a quarrel with him and get satisfaction."
And they all jumped on to a car, Ingersol sticking as fast as a burr to the company, though more than one of them looked their surprise.
He sat, his soul in his eyes, holding his basket of fruit carefully on his knees, and looking at Hetty across the way.
She chatted and laughed, occasionally drawing him in by a little remark, the lovely color flying into her cheek, and then deserting it suddenly.
"Here we are. Come," cried Frances at last, signalling the conductor.
Ingersol, on any change being thrown into fresh alarm at a chance of losing Hetty, didn't notice the location as he rushed after her, pretending to help all the young women, in reality doing nothing for any one but her, so that they all dashed up a pair of stairs, and then another, like a group of children, running at last into a small office.
"Oh, Charley!" screamed Frances; "she lost her train!"
"Yes, she did, she did," chorussed the young women.
"Eh?" said Charley. "That's too bad, Hetty."
"Oh, heavens and earth!" cried Ingersol, dashing his basket of fruit toward the proprietor of the office, who had his legs across a table, while he puffed at a big pipe. "You demon! You've known her all this time!"
"Hulloa, Jim!" said Charley, with a drawl, and taking another bite at his meerschaum, while he dropped his legs to the floor. "Want me to get some more spoons—eh?" and he stuck his hands in both pockets.
"And you've known her," cried Ingersol, "and wouldn't stir a finger to help me—" a rush of his own unreasonableness making him stop short.
"Oh, they're going to fight!" cried Frances, huddling in between the two, and lifting her long tan-colored gloves beseechingly. "Stop! Stop, mister! whoever you are. You sha'n't touch my husband!"
"Your husband?" cried Ingersol, tumbling back.
"Yes; that's my wife," said Charley, coolly. "Sorry you couldn't have met before. But you never had time to come home with me, Jim, so 'tisn't my fault."
"And she's Hetty's—Miss Dunbar's friend?" gasped Jim, unable to get it even then through his head.
"Precisely. And I went down to the station yesterday to meet Hetty. Frances couldn't. That's the time you were as sweet as a snapping-turtle to me. Eh? Remember?" Charley now advanced and gave his friend a poke in the side, while he winked dreadfully. "Oh! by-the-way, Jim," he said, in a low voice, "didn't I have those spoons marked M. D. for you?"
Ingersol turned to Hetty. "I—I feel rather faint. This room is too hot. Would you mind taking a turn with me down the street?" And he put his hand to his head.
Hetty looked up with clear eyes. "I'll go, "she said, simply.
And there, in the shadow of Old King's Chapel, with people coming and going on either hand, and life at its quickest pulse, he told her all, and Hetty promised never to slip away again till death should claim her.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1924, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 99 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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