“Yes, please.”
“Where’s it goin’?”
“To Nome, of course,” answered Hildegarde, panting a little and straightening her hat. “Nobody is going anywhere else, are they?” she added, a little impatient at the man’s staring and delay.
“N-no. I guess not. But—” He grinned good-humoredly. “I didn’t think you looked like a Nomer.”
Here was a blow at the very start. Hildegarde glanced down at her plain clothes, and decided the man was mistaken. But he checked her trunk, her provision-box, her bag, her deck-chair, and her roll of wraps, and she, declining to give up the suit-case, turned about to make her way among the people, massed thicker than ever in this direction. For over yonder, hidden by the crowd, was the gate whose opening would give access to the Los Angeles. Progress here more difficult than ever.
Courage! Now if Louis were somewhere in the crush, if those critical blue-gray eyes were on her, he would be wondering to see how well she made her way, keeping her footing and her temper, gaining inch by inch her goal. She went the more unflinching as under the gray-blue eye. When it became obvious that this pink and white gentle-looking girl was intent, if you please, on working her way to the barrier in front of people who had been there an hour, she was treated to an experience of unyielding backs, sharp elbows, and surly looks. Why shouldn’t she wait her turn? Yes, Hildegarde reflected, it was natural they should feel that, especially the women. Why, how many women there were! But no Mrs. Blumpitty, and no— Hildegarde looked at her watch. How the time had flown. It really was rather odd about Cheviot. He might, of course, come still later, but suppose he didn’t. It was almost incredible, and yet—
If he did come, he’d see, at all events, there were some quite nice-seeming women here. But perhaps they weren’t going. This one, with the white, white face under the orange hat—what little young voice was that beside her? Why, the woman was holding a boy by the hand. He reminded Hildegarde of Cheviot’s small nephew, Billy. She smiled down into the solemn little face. “Are you seeing some one off?”
“Nop!” said the Curlyhead sturdily. “Goin’ to Nome meself.” And the crowd cheered. Either that demonstration frightened him, or he was tired and indifferent to popular approval. He began to fret and then to whimper. Was it his father who spoke so roughly and so thickly? Curlyhead’s whimper blossomed into wailing. His father began to shake him.
“Oh, wait a minute,” said the tall young lady, as if meaning only to delay the operation for a second. She set down the suit-case on her own toes, and out of a pocket in the close-fitting green jacket came a cake of chocolate, all glorious in silver foil. Hildegarde held it before the child’s distorted little face. The features righted themselves as by magic. The youngest pioneer no longer took a gloomy view of his prospects.
The father’s been drinking heavily, Hildegarde said to herself as she went on. Poor wife. Poor little boy. She would know Curlyhead better on the ship.