I rushed at the corporal of the guard, and told him to parade me to the officer commanding.
"Oh, go and die," said he, still at his cards, "my deal."
But I had him firmly by the ear. "Come quick," said I, "come on. I've got to get transferred—tomorrow's train—a little widow—a grandmother of mine, and bound for Troy. Oh, by my sainted aunt's dear speckled socks, come on!"
III
A mile outside of Winnipeg station, just at the end of the sidings, the west-bound train slowed down, then stopped to admit three passengers who came in a government sleigh. These boarded the train and marched through the cars in procession: an important dog snuffling at the passengers on an official tour of inspection, a red-haired sailor tramp, so badly wanted by the local police that he had to be shipped outside their jurisdiction, and a black-avised soldier who, to judge by contemporary portraits, looked rather like the devil.
As we three entered the day-car the tramp shouted, "There she is!"
I told him it was rude to point, bade him stow my luggage and sit down, and then approached the lady, throwing a salute.
"Widow Burrows?" I asked.
"Miss Burrows," was the prim answer.
She was a pretty, tip-tilted blonde, of the best housemaid type, a dead common young animal, yet quite attractive in a land where women were still rare. In England I used to sample them by dozens, taking an educational course in any favors that they had to offer. This one had a pert fur cap, a coat of the same which fitted crushingly over a most pretentious bustle. The skirt seemed hung the wrong way round. From the size, shape and condition of the hands, gloves would have been advisable. She giggled under inspection.