THE MARATHON
As if two gods should play some heavenly match, and on this wager lay two earthly women.—Shakespeare.
An automaton, scarcely thinking, I gained the platform of the station. There was a sound of hissing steam, a rolling cloud of sulphurous smoke, a shouting of railway captains, a creaking of the wheels. Without volition of my own, I was on my northward journey. Presently I looked around and found seated at my side the man whom I then recollected I was to meet—Doctor Samuel Ward. I presume he took the train after I did.
"What's wrong, Nicholas?" he asked. "Trouble of any kind?"
I presume that the harsh quality of my answer surprised him. He looked at me keenly.
"Tell me what's up, my son," said he.
"You know Miss Elisabeth Churchill—" I hesitated.
He nodded. "Yes," he rejoined; "and damn you, sir! if you give that girl a heartache, you'll have to settle with me!"
"Some one will have to settle with me!" I returned hotly.
"Tell me, then."