“Don’t be pig-headed, Hildegarde. Why should you insist on the Congress when here are Mr. and Mrs. Blumpitty ready to look after you on the Los Angeles?”
“I don’t exactly insist, but I’ve paid $125—”
“You can change your ticket, if that’s all, can’t she?” Mrs. Blumpitty appealed to the repository of wisdom on the edge of the chair.
“Oh, ya-as,” said Mr. Blumpitty.
“Why are you so sure?” said Hildegarde. “Is it because the Congress is so much the better boat, as your big, tall friend said?”
“He ain’t right about that, though he’s a mighty smart feller. Been to Harvard College,” he said, for Mrs. Mar’s benefit. Then, as one adducing a destiny higher still, “The Los Angeles has been a Manila transport.”
“But why does everybody seem to want to go in the Congress?”
“Sails four days earlier,” said Blumpitty unmoved. “But”—he glanced, or no, Blumpitty never glanced; with apparent difficulty he rolled his pale eye heavily over to Mrs. Mar—“settin’ out’s one thing, gettin’ in’s another. ’Tain’t likely the Congress’ll see Nome ’fore we do.”
“Anyhow, what are four days compared to—?” Mrs. Mar turned briskly upon her daughter. “Mrs. Blumpitty is going to see that you have all the necessary things, and if you’re sick she’s going to look after you.”