Robert W. Chambers
The Fighting Chance
CHAPTER I. ACQUAINTANCE
The speed of the train slackened; a broad tidal river flashed into sight below the trestle, spreading away on either hand through yellowing level meadows. And now, above the roaring undertone of the cars, from far ahead floated back the treble bell-notes of the locomotive; there came a gritting vibration of brakes; slowly, more slowly the cars glided to a creaking standstill beside a sun-scorched platform gay with the bright flutter of sunshades and summer gowns.
Shotover! Shotover! rang the far cry along the cars; and an absent-minded young man in the Pullman pocketed the uncut magazine he had been dreaming over and, picking up gun case and valise, followed a line of fellow-passengers to the open air, where one by one they were engulfed and lost to view amid the gay confusion on the platform.
The absent-minded young man, however, did not seem to know exactly where he was bound for. He stood hesitating, leisurely inspecting the flashing ranks of vehiclesdepot wagons, omnibusses, and motor cars already eddying around a dusty gravel drive centred by the conventional railroad flower bed and fountain.
Sunshine blazed on foliage plants arranged geometrically, on scarlet stars composed of geraniums, on thickets of tall flame-tinted cannas. And around this triumph of landscape gardening, phaeton, Tilbury, Mercedes, and Toledo backed, circled, tooted; gaily gowned women, whips aslant, horses dancing, greeted expected guests; laughing young men climbed into dog-carts and took the reins from nimble grooms; young girls, extravagantly veiled, made room in comfortable touring-cars for feminine guests whose extravagant veils were yet to be unpacked; slim young men in leather trappings, caps adorned with elaborate masks or goggles, manipulated rakish steering-gears; preoccupied machinists were fussing with valve and radiator or were cranking up; and, through the jolly tumult, the melancholy bell of the locomotive sounded, and the long train moved out through the September sunshine amid clouds of snowy steam.
And all this time the young man, gun case in one hand, suit case in the other, looked about him in his good-humoured, leisurely manner for anybody or any vehicle which might be waiting for him. His amiable inspection presently brought a bustling baggage-master within range of vision; and he spoke to this official, mentioning his hosts name.
Lookin for Mr. Ferrall? repeated the baggage-master, spinning a trunk dexterously into rank with its fellows. Say, one of Mr. Ferralls men was here just nowthere he is, over there uncrating that there bird-dog!
The young mans eyes followed the direction indicated by the grimy thumb; a red-faced groom in familiar livery was kneeling beside a dogs travelling crate, attempting to unlock it, while behind the bars an excited white setter whined and thrust forth first one silky paw then the other.
The young man watched the scene for a moment, then:
Are you one of Mr. Ferralls men? he asked in his agreeable voice.
The groom looked up, then stood up:
Yis, Sorr.
Take these; Im Mr. Siwardfor Shotover House. I dare say you have room for me and the dog, too.
The groom opened his mouth to speak, but Siward took the crate key from his fingers, knelt, and tried the lock. It resisted. From the depths of the crate a beseeching paw fell upon his cuff.
Certainly, old fellow, he said soothingly, I know how you feel about it; I know youre in a hurryand well have you out in a secondsteady, boy!somethings jammed, you see! Only one moment now! There you are!
The dog attempted to bolt as the crate door opened, but the young man caught him by the leather collar and the groom snapped on a leash.
Beg pardon, Sorr, began the groom, carried almost off his feet by the frantic circling of the dogbeg pardon, Sorr, but Ill be afther seem if anny of Mr. Ferralls men drove over for you
Oh! Are you not one of Mr. Ferralls men?
Yis, Sorr, but I hadnt anny orders to meet anny wan
Havent you anything here to drive me in?
Yis, SorrIll look to see
The raw groom, much embarrassed, and keeping his feet with difficulty against the plunging dog, turned toward the gravel drive where now only a steam motor and a depot-wagon remained. As they looked the motor steamed out, honking hoarsely; the depot-wagon followed, leaving the circle at the end of the station empty of vehicles.
Didnt Mr. Ferrall expect me? asked Siward.
Aw, yis, Sorr; but the gintlemen for Shotover House does ginerally allways coom by Black Fells, Sorr
Oh, Lord! said the young man, I remember now. I should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing; Mr. Ferrall wrote me! Then, amused: I suppose you have only a baggage-wagon here?
No, Sorra phaytonhe hesitated.
Well? Isnt a phaeton all right?
Yis, Sorrif th yoong lady says sobeg pardon, Sorr, Miss Landis is driving.
Ohh! I see.... Is Miss Landis a guest at Shotover House?
Yis, Sorr. An if ye would joost ask herthe phayton do be coming now, Sorr!
The phaeton was coming; the horse, a showy animal, executed side-steps; blue ribbons fluttered from the glittering head-stall; a young girl in white was driving.
Siward advanced to the platforms edge as the phaeton drew up; the young lady looked inquiringly at the groom, at the dog, and leisurely at him.
So he took off his hat, naming himself in that well-bred and agreeable manner characteristic of men of his sort,and even his smile appeared to be part and parcel of a conventional ensemble so harmonious as to remain inconspicuous.
You should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing, observed Miss Landis, coolly controlling the nervous horse. Didnt you know it?
He said he remembered now that such were the directions given him.
The girl glanced at him incuriously, and with more curiosity at the dog. Is that the Sagamore pup, Flynn? she asked.
It is, Miss.
Cant you take him on the rumble with you? And, to Siward: There is room for your gun and suit case.
And for me? he asked, smiling.
I think so. Be careful of that Sagamore pup, Flynn. Hold him between your knees. Are you ready, Mr. Siward?
So he climbed in; the groom hoisted the dog to the rumble and sprang up behind; the horse danced and misbehaved, making a spectacle of himself and an agreeable picture of his driver; then the pretty little phaeton swung northward out of the gravel drive and went whirling along a road all misty with puffs of yellow dust which the afternoon sun turned to floating golden powder.
Did you send my telegram, Flynn? she asked without turning her head.
I did, Miss.
It being the most important telegram she had ever sent in all her life, Miss Landis became preoccupied,quite oblivious to extraneous details, including Siward, until the horse began acting badly again. Her slightly disdainful and perfect control of the reins interested the young man. He might have said something civil and conventional about that, but did not make the effort to invade a reserve which appeared to embarrass nobody.
A stacatto note from the dog, prolonged infinitely in hysterical crescendo, demanded comment from somebody.
What is the matter with him, Flynn? she asked.
Siward said: You should let him run, Miss Landis.
She nodded, smiling, inattentive, absorbed in her own affairs, still theorising concerning her telegram. She drove on for a while, and might have forgotten the dog entirely had he not once more lifted his voice in melancholy.