The Daily Ardmoreite. [volume] (Ardmore, Okla.) 1893-current, 1910-12-18


Wallingford. He sat down hard in
his seat and frowned.
No one in the sleeper thought
of retiring. 1t was too much like an
adventure to be wastei in Sleep.
The thin, red-bearded man was
thinking what an excellent story
it would make next day at dinner,
and the few ladies' in the car put
aside their travellers reserve and
gradually moved together Those
who had books took comfortable po-
sitions and preparef for a long fic-
! toned evening, and three or four
of the men turned up their over
coat collars and stumbled out into
the snow, to come back again a
little later with red cheeks and
noses to retail the absolute nothing
they had learned by personal OBJ
servation. 1t amounted to an en-
broidered statement that one of the
trainmen was down on his back un-
der the engine fixing it, and that il
the engine happened to start, It
would be "goodby'' trainman but
no one semed to have any idea that
the engine would start. Every pas
senger who had ever had anything
happen to him on a train proceed,
ed to tell it, and the six young
men stood in the aisle at one of the
cars and sang college songs.
Mr.. Wallingford stool it as long
as he could and then he went into
the smoking compartment, where
the porter was pretending to do
things TO the spotless lavatory ap.
pliances.
George said Mr.. Wallingford,
Il want to send telegram; | must
send a telegram"
Yes ,sah,' said the porter with
| tip-endous courtesy. Il don't believe
you can, sab. Not from heah, sah.'
"Why not?" demanded Mr.. Wal
lingfCr1. Isn't this a station Just
ahead? DO you mean to tell me this
road maintains stations without tel
egraph operators?'
NO, sah," said the porter. Thehs
an operator theh, sure enough, but
he can't take public messages. No.
nothing but company business. It's
! contrary to rules, sah?'
rs it, exclaimed Mr.. Walling-
ford. You mean to say that this
corporation Of robbers sends out its
passengers behind leaky tin dish
pan of an engine, and stalls them,
Lord knows where, and then refuses
to send a message? Pretty road this
is, isn't it?"
The porter bent down and pol-
ishei a faucet to hide his grin.
Its against the rules, that's all
know. sah," he said softly.
Can you tell me, then,' demand
ed Mr.. Wallingford, how am GO
ing to send a message? Tel me
that, will you?'
The porter shook his head sorrow
fully.
Il dunno, sah." he replied. "On-
less" he added, with sudden inspi-
ration, you might find a telephone
over at the farm house yon1er." He
went to the window and pointed to
two lights that showed mistily
through the falling snow. Seems
like the house ought to have a telly.
phone. Bein' so neah the station,
and the only house close by, seems
as if it ought, sab. Most all these
weil-off farmers has telephones
now. If it's special important to
send a message, you might try it,
sah.' Mr.. Wallingford considered. He
certainly must let his wife know
where he was. Possibly there might
be a telephone there He uttered a
few curses on Ithe lSlroad, its
trains and its officials, buttoned his
| overcoat close around his neck, pull
ed his hat firmly on his head, ani
stepped out into the snow.
He made his way first to the en-
gine and accosted a bystander.
How long will We be here?" he
asked.
The bystander shook his head
They say we may lie here until
morning, now he said. Il can.
tell. They won't say what's the mat
ter. / remember one time when |
was going to ReXham on the C.
q L.
Mr. Wallingford left him to tell
his story to some more patient man
and waded off through the snow. He
skirted the high fence that Incl
the tracks until he came to a cross.
road, and plunged up this at
dog trot, painting The snow blew