So they pass a very happy evening—the young lady singing a song or two for her swain, more beautifully, he thinks, than any prima donna, and saying good-night to him afterwards so tenderly that Lawrence, coming to his own car, astonishes the negro porter by giving him five dollars for making up his bed in the stateroom which is unoccupied, and more roomy than a section.
A moment after he murmurs to himself: "Can it be? Is it possible?"—and then cries, "Good gracious! the engagement ring—and no jeweller in sight!"
And so he goes to bed, to be awakened by a voice in the night that changes confidence into doubt, and makes joy into sorrow.
Harry has hardly been in bed an hour when there is a rap on the door of his stateroom.
"Hang you!" he cries, thinking it is the negro porter. "I've left my boots outside. What are you waking me up for at this time of night?"
"'Ssh! don't talk so loud, Cap! Let me in!"
And opening the door, Mr. Powers makes his appearance, his eyes, in the moonlight that is streaming in, large, luminous, and excited.
He gasps: "Cap—come—an' save your girl!"
As Buck speaks, Lawrence is out of bed. "Quick!" he says.
"You know in my baggage car I hear most of what's goin' on. Them teamsters that came here with the grub are camping in there to-night. I heard them talking. They're Mormons!"