He sat down and brooded bitterly. He had been booted off a train and had dropped into the company of a stranger. By virtue of helplessness, this stranger became an enforced trust upon the unwilling hands of Mr. Connors until he could be turned over to some one else. Mutual misfortune created a certain tie of brotherhood. Mr. Connors scorned the quitter who abandoned even a chance pal in a state of wounded disability. Every profession has its ethics. There was, however, no ethical objection to robbing the invalid’s pockets. Mr. Connors was a socialist. This man had money. Mr. Connors had none. It was equitable that the extremes of wealth and poverty be leveled. Profound thinkers have enunciated this principle.
Mr. Connors bent over and proceeded to carry into effect the socialistic propaganda by the simple device of searching every pocket. Mr. Copewell had drawn his check that day with a view to meeting the requirements of honeymooning—and honeymooning is an expensive pastime. The eyes of Mr. Rat Connors bulged and glittered in the firelight as he counted bills and made transfers. Then Mr. Connors dragged the prostrate figure farther back into the shadow and arranged it as comfortably as possible on the grass. After that he piled fresh sticks on the blaze.
“Now I’ve got ter find some hoosier ter look after dis guinea,” soliloquized the unwilling custodian. “Gee, but it’s —— to be soft-hearted!” He paused and felt through his coat the thick wad of bills in his pocket. “An’ say, Rat, me son,” he added with deep sorrow, “wid a bun like dat yer could beat it ter de North Pole, too!”
Mr. Connors struck off at random into the night, singing mournfully as he went:
“Jay Gould’s daughter, afore she died,
Done signed a paper so de bums can’t ride.”
CHAPTER VI
MR. BURROW SUGGESTS A REMEDY
The Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow had been something like two hours in Jaffa Junction. Two hours in Jaffa Junction is more than sufficient for any man. For the Hon. Alexander the night held nothing save the melancholy prospect of seeing a friend abandon himself to the emotional insanity of marriage. For marriage Mr. Burrow had no tolerance. For women he had a supreme contempt. When the train which should have borne his friend whisked through and brought no Copewell, the best man became testy.
Mr. Burrow reflected that this development left him to take charge of an unclaimed lady, whom he did not want. He found the idea disconcerting. Decidedly he must devise some escape. Then an inspirational idea dawned. He would rush up to her Pullman when it arrived. He would shout warningly, “On your way! Your lunatic didn’t come!” That ought to solve the situation very nicely. First, though, he would call up Mercerville and find out what had happened.
Calling up Mercerville from Jaffa Junction proved an undertaking of such magnitude that Mr. Burrow’s grouch ripened slowly into misanthropy before it was accomplished. The telephone exchange, instead of being central in location, seemed to have been placed on the principle of an eruptive hospital in far-away isolation. When at last he got Copewell’s lodgings it was to learn that Copewell had left on the west-bound express.