He could scarcely believe his eyes. He gaped speechless for a few minutes, for the sound of the sleigh-bells had made him turn sharply as he was picking up his cap. Then he restored the covering to his head, ran to the fence, and bawled, helplessly, "Stop thar—stop! Stop!"
'Tilda Jane was skimming gaily around a turn in the road toward the sunset. He thought he heard a jeering laugh from her, but he was mistaken. Having got what she wanted, she was going obliviously on her way. The boy had been an obstacle, and she had brushed him aside.
"'STOP THAR—STOP! STOP!'"
With his slower brain he was forced to pause and deliberate. Had she stolen their rig? Stupid as he was, the conviction forced itself upon him that she had not. She could not take the rig on the train, anyway, and plucking up courage, and shivering in the cold that had seized upon him during his deliberations, he meditatively and angrily began to plod over the route that he had recommended to her.
Three-quarters of an hour later, he drew into the station yard. The train had come and gone, and his eager eyes went to the pony tied safe and sound under the shed, with not only the lap-robe over his back, but also the striped shawl—the first and last time that he would have the pleasure of wearing it.
At the sound of the bells when he turned the sleigh, the telegraph operator came to the station door. "Here's fifty cents for you, left by a black-eyed girl."