The crowds that composed the sailing list besieged the offices day by day, wildly impatient at the date of departure being “a little postponed” while the Los Angeles was further embellished for their reception. “Style’s all very well. But gettin’ there’s the thing.”
And among them this girl, with only half her ticket paid for, coming in twice a day to keep track of events.
At last, after a night of riot, when the office was very nearly pulled about the company’s ears, all Seattle knew that the much-heralded steamer had been brought up from Tacoma and was at the Seattle wharf. The crowds on the water front could see her, glaring and white and respect-inspiring, but guarded like the gate of Paradise.
“Let’s go and see our quarters,” Hildegarde suggested, meeting Mr. Blumpitty in the street.
“Wish we could,” said Blumpitty sadly. “No one allowed aboard till sailin’ time, nine o’clock to-morrer.”
Hildegarde spoke of the agent’s promise.
“Promise! Oh, yes, promise anything.” And Blumpitty moved gloomily away in the crowd.
Hildegarde found the agent without loss of time. He was overwhelmed with work. Didn’t she see!
What she saw was a clay-faced individual, with a slight bulge in one lean jaw where he stored his tobacco—red-eyed, unwashed, and obviously irritated by her reappearance. His promise—quietly she insisted. The anæmic visage twitched, and he attended to another customer. But she stood waiting, and she looked as if she were prepared to camp there till she’d had her way. Oh, these women! They wus always like that—fussin’ and naggin’ and goin’ on!