The letter was from Gertie.
Dear Carl,—I hear that you are standing for that Frazer just as much as ever and really Carl I think you might consider other people's feelings a little and not be so selfish——
Without finishing it, Carl tore up the letter in a fury. Then, "Poor kid; guess she means well," he thought, and made an imaginary bow to her in farewell.
There was a certain amount of the milk of human-kindness in the frozen husk he had for a time become. But he must be blamed for icily rejecting the Turk's blundering attempts to make peace. He courteously—courtesy, between these two!—declined the Turk's offer to help him carry his suit-cases to the station. That was like a slap.
"Good-by. Hang on tight," he said, as he stooped to the heavy suit-cases and marched out of the door without looking back.
By some providence he was saved from the crime of chilly self-righteousness. On the darkness of the stairs he felt all at once how responsive a chum the Turk had been. He dropped the suit-cases, not caring how they fell, rushed back into the room, and found the Turk still staring at the door. He cried:
"Old man, I was——Say, you yahoo, are you going to make me carry both my valises to the depot?"
They rushed off together, laughing, promising to write to each other.
The Minneapolis train pulled out, with Carl trying to appear commonplace. None of the sleepy passengers saw that the Golden Fleece was draped about him or that under his arm he bore the harp of Ulysses. He was merely a young man taking a train at a way-station.