“Is—is Twelve on time,” he mimicked, and turned to wink at the near-by drummers. But it was a wink misplaced. One of the men, who had been teetering gayly up and down on the precarious footing of the iron track, in sheer exuberance of health and the fine morning, turned a sudden flaming red, and removed the cigar abruptly from his mouth.
“The lady’s asked you if the train’s on time. You’re here to tell her!” he blazed.
In sulky surprise, Edward Black attempted to turn away as though called by important business elsewhere, but the drummer came a stride nearer, and curled his fists.
“Tell her!” he commanded.
“Yes, it’s on time,” Edward answered and made a sullen escape.
The drummer turned to Julie, and swept off his hat. “Lady, your train’s on time,” he announced.
“Oh—oh, thank you!” Julie faltered, and retreated into the station in an agony of embarrassment.
As she fled, she heard the drummer comment to his friend, “Oh, Lord, how I do hate that kind of a fat bully! I hope to heavens if I ever get to France all the Germans’ll look just like him. If they do, I’ll not have any trouble at all stickin’ bayonets into ’em.”
Julie knew that the words were perfectly audible to Edward Black and that he would not fail to pay her back for them. She still had her ticket to buy, and when he opened the ticket window she approached in apprehension. They were alone in the station.
“Say, Julie, I got a joke on you,” he jeered. “Say, I know how you go to prayer meetin’.”