They spent one more night “sleeping on shelves,” as Jennie Stone expressed it, than they had counted upon. Miss Cullam went to her berth with a groan.
“Believe me, my dears,” she announced, “I shall welcome even a saddle as a relief from these cars. You are all nice girls, if I do say it, who perhaps shouldn’t. I flatter myself I have had something to do with molding your more or less plastic minds and dispositions. But I must love you a great deal to ever attempt another such long journey as this for you or with you.”
“Oh, Miss Cullam!” cried Trix Davenport, “we will erect a statue to you on Bliss Island—right near the Stone Face. And on it shall be engraved: ‘Nor granite is more enduring than Miss Cullam.’”
“I wonder,” murmured the teacher, “if that is complimentary or otherwise?”
But they all loved her. Miss Cullam developed very human qualities indeed, take her away from mathematics!
The party was held up for two hours at Kingman, waiting for a local train to steam on with them to their destination. And there Tom learned something which rather troubled him.
Telegrams were never received direct at Yucca. The railroad business was done by telephone, and all the messages sent to Yucca were telephoned through to the station agent—if that individual chanced to be on hand. Otherwise they were entrusted to the rural mail carrier. One could almost count the inhabitants of Yucca on one’s fingers and toes!
“Jiminy!” gasped Tom, when he learned these particulars. “I bet I’ve made a mess of it.”
He tried to find out at the Kingman station what had become of the final messages he had sent. The operator on duty when they arrived was now off duty, and he lived out of town.
“If they were mailed, son,” observed the man then at the telegraph table, “you will get to Yucca about two hours before the mail gets there. Here comes your train now.”