“Oh, no, Mr. Jackson,” Auntie Sue answered easily. “I'm just going to Chicago for a little visit with an old friend.”
“Sort of a vacation, eh?” returned the man behind the window, as he made out her ticket. “Well, you sure have earned one, Auntie Sue. It's gittin' to be vacation time now, too. Bunch of folks come in yesterday to stay at the clubhouse for a spell. Pretty wild lot, I'd say,—wimmen as well as the men. I reckon them clubhouse parties don't disturb you much, though, if you be their nearest neighbor,—do they?”
“They never have yet, Mr. Jackson,” she returned. “Their place is on the other side of the river, and a mile above my house, you know. I see them in their boats on The Bend, though, and once in a while they call on me. But the Elbow Rock rapids begin in front of my place, and the clubhouse people don't usually come that far down the river.”
She turned to Judy, and, with the girl, went out of the waiting room to the platform, where she whispered: “You must start back right away, Judy. If your father is on the train, he might see you.”
“What if pap ketches sight of you-all?” Judy returned nervously.
“He will not be so apt to notice me as he would you,” she returned, “even if he does catch a glimpse of me. And it can't be helped if he does. I'll be in Chicago as quick as he will, and I know I will see Mr. Ward first. Go on now, dear, and don't let Mr. Burns or Betty Jo see you, and be a good girl. I feel sure that everything will be all right.”
With a sudden awkward movement, poor Judy caught the old gentlewoman's hand and pressed it to her lips; then, turning, ran toward the buggy.
When the train arrived, the station agent came to help Auntie Sue with her handbag aboard, and she managed to keep her friend between herself and the coaches, in case Jap Taylor should be looking from a window. As the conductor and the agent assisted her up the steps, the agent said: “Mind you take good care of her, Bill. Finest old lady God-Almighty ever made! If you was to let anything happen to her, you best never show yourself in this neighborhood again; we'd lynch you, sure!”
The conductor found a good seat for his lovely old passenger, and made her as comfortable as possible. As he punched her ticket, he said, with a genial smile, which was the voluntary tribute paid to Auntie Sue by all men: “You are not much like the passengers I usually carry in this part of the country, ma'm. They are mostly a rather rough-lookin' lot.”
She smiled back at him, understanding perfectly his intended compliment. “They are good people, though, sir,—most of them. Of course, there are some who are a little wild, sometimes, I expect.”