“But he does want me,” Ruthita persisted. “I’ve always seen him off. I used to run beside the trap till I was ready to drop when Uncle Obad drove him away to the Red House. He’s only making fun.”
“No, really, Ruthie, I’d much rather say good-by to you here in the shop.”
“If you’re going to catch the six-thirty-eight, you’ll have to run,” said my grandmother.
Ruthita looked hurt. She could not understand me. She felt that something was wrong. I picked up my bag. They hurriedly embraced and followed me out on to the pavement to watch me down the road. I looked back.
There they stood waving and crying after me, “Good-by. God bless you. Good-by.”
In passing the chemist’s shop I glanced in at the clock. It was five minutes faster than my watch. I turned into the High Street at something between a trot and a walk.
On entering the station I saw that the London train was ready to depart. The guard had the flag in his hand and the whistle to his lips, about to give the signal. The porters were banging the doors of the carriages. I had yet to buy my ticket. Rushing to the office, I pushed my money through. “’Fraid you won’t get the six-thirty-eight,” said the clerk.
I reached the barrier, where the collector was standing, just as the guard blew his whistle.
“Too late,” growled the collector, closing the gate in my face with all the impersonal incivility of a man whose action is supported by law.
“There’s a lady and a little girl on board,” I panted; “they’re expecting me.”