“Some gang back there—some wild gang!” [391] he murmured and, dodging adeptly past Mr. Birdseye, was gone, heading forward.
The searcher rounded the jog of the compartment reservation, and inside him then his soul was lifted up and exalted. There could be no mistake now. Within the confines of this Pullman romped and rampaged young men and youths to the number of perhaps twenty. There seemed to be more than twenty of them; that, though, was due to the flitting movements of their rambunctious forms. Norfolk-jacketed bodies, legs in modishly short trousers deeply cuffed at the bottoms, tousled heads to which rakish soft hats and plaid travelling caps adhered at angles calculated to upset the theory of the attraction of gravitation, showed here, there, everywhere, in a confused and shifting vista. Snappy suit cases, a big, awkward-looking, cylindrical bag of canvas, leather-faced, and two or three other boxes in which, to judge by their shapes, stringed musical instruments were temporarily entombed, encumbered a seat near by.
All this Mr. Birdseye’s kindled eye comprehended in the first quick scrutiny. Also it took in the posture of a long, lean, lanky giant in his early twenties, who stood midway of the coach, balancing himself easily on his legs, for by now the train was picking up speed. One arm of the tall athlete—the left—was laid along his breast, and in its crook it held several small, half-ripened oranges. His right hand would pluck [392] up an orange, the right arm would wind up, and then with marvellous accuracy and incredible velocity the missile would fly, like a tawny-green streak, out of an open window at some convenient target. So fast he worked and so well, it seemed as though a constant stream of citrus was being discharged through that particular window. An orange spattered against a signpost marking the limits of the yard. Two oranges in instantaneous succession struck the rounded belly of a water tank, making twin yellow asterisks where they hit. A fourth, driven as though by a piston, whizzed past the nappy head of a darky pedestrian who had halted to watch the train go by. That darky ducked just in time.
Mr. Birdseye lunged forward to pay tribute to the sharpshooter. Beyond peradventure there could be but one set of muscles on this continent capable of such marksmanship. But another confronted him, barring his way, a stockily built personage with a wide, humorous face, and yet with authority in all its contour and lines.
“Well, see who’s here!” he clarioned and literally he embraced Mr. Birdseye, pinning that gentleman’s arms to his sides. He bent his head and put his lips close to Mr. Birdseye’s flattered ear, the better to be heard above the uproar dinning about them. “What was the name?” he inquired.
“Birdseye—J. Henry Birdseye.”
[393]
Continuing to maintain a firm grasp upon Mr. Birdseye’s coat sleeve the stocky individual swung about and called for attention:
“Gentlemen, one moment—one moment, if you please.”
Plainly he had unquestioned dominion over this mad and pranksome crew. His fellows paused in whatever they were doing to give heed unto his words.
“Boys, it gives me joy to introduce to you Colonel Birdshot.”