The engine came, glaring in through the mist; the train seemed impatient, enormous, dwarfing the small station. The prodigal parents hastily tugged suit-case and bundle aboard. They found a seat together. They fussily tucked away their luggage. He held her hand firmly, concealing the two hands with a fold of her overcoat.... You have seen old folk, quite simple and rustic old folk who are apparently unused to travel, sit motionless for hour after hour of train-travel, and you have fancied that they were unconscious of life, of speed, of wonder? So sat Father and Mother, but they were gloriously conscious of each other, and now and then, when he was sure that no one was looking, he whispered: “Old honey, there’s nothing holding us apart now no more. We’re partners again, and Lord! how we’ll fight! I’ll go in and I’ll take Pilkings’s business clean away from him, I will! Old honey, we’re free again! And we’re going to see—New York! Lord! I just can’t believe it!”
“Yes—why—why, it’s our real honeymoon!”
Not till they had ridden for an hour did she demand, “Seth, what are we going to do in New York?”
“Why, fiddle! I swear I don’t know! But—we’ll find something. I guess if we can bamboozle a modern fash’nable daughter we won’t be afraid of just New York.”
“No!”
Till four in the morning the Applebys sat unmoving, awake and happy. When the train passed the row on row of apartment-houses that mean New York no youngster first seeing the infinitely possible city, and the future glory it must hold for him, was ever more excited than the invading Innocents.
CHAPTER X
WITH twenty-seven dollars as capital, and a bundle of garments of rather uncertain style as baggage, and the pawn-ticket for a rather good suit-case as insurance, Mr. and Mrs. Seth Appleby established themselves in a “furnished housekeeping room” on Avenue B, and prepared to reconquer New York. It was youth’s hopeful sally. They had everything to gain. Yet they were irretrievably past sixty.