“Say, the Doc ain't fair. He's too swift in his movements,” he muttered to himself as he proceeded to fling things into their places. He raised the windows, opened the stove door and looked in. The ashes of many fires half filling the box met his eyes with silent reproach. “Say, the Doc ain't fair,” he muttered again. “Them ashes ought to have been out of there long ago.” This fact none knew better than himself, inasmuch as there was no other from whom this duty might properly be expected. Yet it brought some small relief to vent his disgust upon this offending accumulation of many days' neglect. There was not a moment to lose. He was due in ten minutes to meet the possible guests for the Royal at the train. He seized a pail left in the hall by the none too tidy housemaid and with his hands scooped into it the ashes from the stove, and, leaving a cloud of dust to settle everywhere upon tables and chairs, ran down with his pail and back again with kindling and firewood and had a fire going in an extraordinarily short time. He then caught up an ancient antimacassar, used it as a duster upon chairs and tables, flung it back again in its place over the rickety sofa and rushed for the station to find that the train had already pulled in, had come to a standstill and was disgorging its passengers upon the platform.
“Roy—al Ho—tel!” shouted Billy. “Best in town! All the comforts and conveniences! Yes, sir! Take your grip, sir? Just give me them checks! That's all right, leave 'em to me. I'll get your baggage all right.”
He saw the doctor wandering distractedly up and down the platform.
“Hello, Doc, got your lady? Not on the Pullman, eh? Take a look in the First Class. Say, Doc,” he added in a lower voice, coming near to the doctor, “what's that behind you?”
The doctor turned sharply and saw a young lady whose long clinging black dress made her seem taller than she was. She wore a little black hat with a single feather on one side, which gave it a sort of tam o' shanter effect. She came forward with hand outstretched.
“I know you, Mr. Martin,” she said in a voice that indicated immense relief.
“You?” he cried. “Is it you? And to think I didn't know you. And to think you should remember me.”
“Remember! Well do I remember you—and that day in the Cuagh Oir—but you have forgotten all about that day.” A little flush appeared on her pale cheek.
“Forgotten?” cried Martin.
“But you didn't know me,” she added with a slight severity in her tone.