However, mistake or not, it was now at hand. A distant whistle sounded. The southern San Diego train was coming in, the outgoing overland express stood waiting on the rails before the platform, and by one impulse the whole Sobrante party grouped about the girl for a final kiss or hand-shake. To each and all of them she represented the best of life.
“If anybody harms or tries to harm a hair of your curly yellow head, my Lady Jess, just you telegrapht me to once an’ I’ll take the trail eastward, lickety-cut!” cried George Cromarty, with a suspicious moisture in his usually merry eyes.
“I—I’ve got a brother yender, in the State o’ Maine. Like’s not I’ll be takin’ a trip that way myself, little captain, if I find Sobrante gets too lonesome,” said Joe, the smith.
“Be sure you keep that bottle of picra right side up, just the way I fixed it in your satchel, an’ take a dose if you feel a mite car sick, or homesick, or——”
“Any other kind of sick!” interrupted John Benton, coolly pushing Aunt Sally aside, that he might get hold of Jessica himself.
“There’s dried peach turnovers in that basket an’ some my hen chicken’s best hard-boiled eggs in Mr. Hale’s suit case!” almost screamed Mrs. Benton as the whole party moved forward toward the train. “There’s a jar of picked-off roast quail and—Good-by, Jessie Trent! Good-by! Don’t take no sass from nobody and do, I beg of you, do keep—your stockin’s—mended; Oh! my stars an’ garters! Oh! my! my suz!” wailed the poor woman, as the girl she so dearly loved was swept away from her without even one parting hug.
But Mrs. Trent, to whom this farewell meant more than to any of them, had now no word to say. One silent, prolonged clasp of her daughter’s little figure, one light kiss on the pretty lips, and—Jessica was gone!
The dying rumble of the overland seemed a knell of all her happiness and for a moment, as she stood with closed eyes trying to collect herself, she had a reckless impulse to board the next outgoing train and follow on her darling’s “trail.” Then somebody touched her arm and Ninian Sharp was saying in tones that tried to be cheerful and failed:
“Come, dear madam. Our girl has put you into my especial care and the first thing on the docket is dinner. It was a poor breakfast any of us made and I, for one, am hungry. Come on, boys. It’s the Westminster—for all of us. Here? Ready, every one? This car then for you and we’ll meet you there. Come, Aunt Sally. Eh? What?”
For as the one-time reporter of the Lancet, and now manager of the Sobrante, hailed a carriage to convey Mrs. Trent and Mrs. Benton hotel-ward, the latter fell into a tragic attitude and wildly waved her “reticule” eastward, whither Jessica’s train had gone, and as wildly thrust her free hand skyward, exclaiming: