'Tilda Jane was in a quandary. She had boarded the train for Ciscasset, she sat up very straight and apparently very composed—her outward demeanour gave not a hint of the turmoil within. In reality she was full of trouble. She had not a cent of money in her pocket, and her new familiarity with the workings of the Maine Central Railway assured her that it did not carry passengers for nothing.
What was she to do? She pulled the little tippet more closely around Gippie's shoulders. She had taken it from her own, for it was absolutely necessary for him to have another covering now that the shawl was gone. Perhaps he would be taken away from her. She had noticed that it was not a customary thing for people to travel with dogs. His head and tail were plainly visible—this tippet was not like the voluminous shawl.
Lucas had not offered her money, and she had not liked to ask him for it. Perhaps he had not thought about it. Perhaps if he did think of it, he supposed that he was doing enough to get her to Nicatoos—and there was the conductor entering the other end of the car. She must do something, and deliberately rising from her seat, she slipped Gippie under her arm, and made her way out to the platform of the fast moving train.
It was quite dark now. She gave one side glance at the white, silent country they were passing through, then stepped into the lighted car ahead.
"This is a smoking-car, young girl," observed some one, haughtily.
'Tilda Jane had dropped into the first seat she came to, which happened to be beside a very stout and very dignified gentleman who had a cigar in his mouth, and who was reading a newspaper.
She looked round, saw that there were a number of men in the car—no women, no children, and that the atmosphere was a hazy blue.
"Smoke don't bother me," she said, almost scornfully. What was a breath of smoke compared with her inward discomposure over her pecuniary difficulties?
"I'm in a little trouble," she said, brusquely, "I ain't got money to buy a ticket."