“This is our sixth trip out, so you see we know the ropes,” explained Mr. Hopkins. “When our sons and daughters travel with us—we’ve got five scattered from California to Idaho—they make us ride in the parlour cars, but Marthy and I prefer the tourists; she says the folks ain’t so stuck up and that our money and things are safer.”
When he had first spoken about early rising, Phil had decided that Mr. Hopkins was an unsuccessful Eastern farmer making a last desperate bid for fortune by going West. But as he heard him tell of the many trips across the continent and of his family, he recalled vividly Dr. Blair’s words about judging by appearances.
Looking down the aisle, Ted saw Mrs. Hopkins bustling about an oil stove, and soon she came toward them with two large plates.
“I always bring ham, it keeps better,” she explained, as she set the plates, the other of which contained fried potatoes, on the table her husband had improvised.
“But I didn’t know they allowed passengers to cook,” exclaimed Phil.
“That’s the beauty of a tourist car,” returned Mr. Hopkins. “Many a time when I have gone into a diner and tasted the messes they set before me, I’ve wished I was in a tourist where I could have some of Marthy’s cooking.”
“I don’t wonder, it’s bully,” declared Ted, as he ate heartily. “We must write Momsy and the girls to come by a tourist car, so they can do their own cooking.”
“And I’ll give you a list of things to send them, things I’ve found keep all right, so they won’t buy food that will spoil,” offered Mrs. Hopkins.
“Thank you, and now isn’t there something we can do to return your kindness?” asked Phil, when the simple but satisfying breakfast had been eaten.
“You may wash the dishes,” smiled the kindly woman. “That’s Silas’ job, but he doesn’t like it very well.”