“Oh! not a bit of it, not a bit of it; I have explained everything to him, and he won’t forget. Now, you’d never dream it,” he went on, turning and walking beside the handsome woman, “but that young fellow McGuire’s a nobleman.”
“You don’t tell me?”
“Yes, I do, an’ what’s more to the point, it’s true. Look at him. You don’t suppose a young fellow like that would be in charge of a main line express train ’less he had a pull.”
“A what?”
“’Less he cut ice elsewhere,” said the conductor. “I tell you that comedian stands to win out a throne some day. His father was Irish, of course, but his mother was French. She could chase herself right back to the old rock and rye family, the Bourbins, I think they were called. His grandfather lived with a man called Louie Sais on a ranch called Ver Sigh, a little way out of Paris. The old man was a sort of a chum of the Louis, called ‘The Gentleman of the Sleeping Car’ or something like that,—he was a big hole at Ver Sigh, was this boy’s Grand Pare.”
“Allabo a-r-d,” said McGuire in the middle of his career. The old gentleman bowed stiffly to Bowen, the young lady smiled sweetly, and stepped into the Pullman.
When McGuire came through the car taking up tickets after leaving Montrose, he found Miss Landon alone. She lifted her eyes,—sunny eyes, they were, that seemed to mock him and the blinding storm through which they were now rolling away up the long, even grade that made a mighty approach to the mountain. She held her glance upon his burning face for the briefest space, but when he passed on he could still feel the warmth of her eyes, like the waves of lingering sunshine through which you pass when you are walking in a summer twilight.
When he had finished his work the conductor returned to the smoking-room of the sleeper, but found after a moment’s stay that the air was vile, the place stuffy, and he went forward to the day coach. As he passed through the forward sleeper he noticed that Miss Landon was still alone. She had her back to him, but as he came up the aisle the swing of the car on a short curve caused him to steady himself upon the end of her section. At the same moment and for the same reason she put an ungloved hand out to clasp the edge of the narrow seat, and it fell, soft as a snowflake, warm as a sunbeam, and soundless as a shadow, upon the hand of McGuire.
To be sure she did not leave it there long, but she had to press the hand of the conductor to steady herself in the car that was now rolling like a stage-coach on the Rainbow Route. She drew her hand away, and went red to the tips of her shell-like ears; but she did not look back to see whose hand she had caressed. Looking into the narrow mirror at her side, McGuire saw her confusion and hurried past, and she wondered whether it was his hand that she had touched. She rather hoped that it might be so!
Up in the forward car the two travelling men, the editor of the Ouray Solid Muldoon, and a cowboy from the Uncompahgre, were playing poker. Now McGuire knew that this was against the rules of the road, but he was slow to make protest under the circumstances. He was reasonably sure that they would all come back to Montrose, for the snow was growing deeper and deeper with each passing mile-post. He would have these men on his hands overnight, and so would avoid friction. He stood with his back to the door for a moment listening to the talk of the travelling men, the cowboy, and the editor.