As Stafford concluded his fanciful, dreamy but, seemingly, from his manner, most earnest story, the Far Away Lady gave him a single appealing glance and then arose and departed for her own car. As she passed he saw that there were tears in her eyes. They did not speak nor did they meet again that day, but he was resolved to breakfast with her in the morning.
Morning opened brilliantly and as he entered the dining car, at the time he knew she would be there, he saw that the sun which had but just climbed lazily above the mountain tops, was engaged in the task of gilding her hair. He advanced with more courage than he had on the first occasion.
"Good morning, the world is in a good humor to-day, is it not," was his comment as he took his seat. "Have you noticed that the sun, whose business it is to indicate the world's moods, has leaped through the window and is playing with your head when he isn't dancing on the table-cloth?"
She looked up smilingly, but before she could answer, there came an interruption. The door of the car opened and there stalked up to them the big conductor, owner of the stubby red moustache, with a look in his eyes which indicated that he had swift remarks to make. He broke out promptly: "Mr. Stafford, you are wanted at the wire, and, you bet, there's something doing."
Pleasant to the looker-on, as to them, are the relations and understandings regarding the little side issues and incidents of life between a man and woman of intelligence and education when they are in love with each other, even though that love must be repressed and unexpressed. The interjection of the conductor was delightful to the woman in this case, because it was an involuntary compliment to the man opposite her at the table. It was the breaking in of a fine hireling upon the man of brains and accomplishments, the call upon him for aid in this time of casual need. Stafford's heart danced as he caught the look, because he recognized its full significance.
And then as he rose he grinned, because he saw that the conductor was evidently in trouble. His face indicated that. There was one appreciative look into the face of the smiling woman and then he went out to deal as he might with the existing condition of affairs. He rather enjoyed these frequent interviews with the coming saviors. They had a smart operator at the other end of the wire and, as he had learned, the boss of the rescuing train was assuredly a railroad man of might and much acuteness. They had, as already told, indulged in a verbal brush or two. Connection was made and the first thing Stafford got was:
"Can't you chumps do anything over there?"
"Do anything!" was Stafford's reply. "Do anything! We are a dead train, lying helpless, with our nose stuck into four hundred thousand million feet of packed snow! What are you doing, yourselves, with all the engines you want and a snow-plow, and all the men you want? It strikes me that as butters-in you are about the worst existing."
And then from the boss of the rescuing train Stafford listened to clicked language the recollection of which was ever afterward among the delights of his life. It referred to his personal character and to his ancestry and to a large variety of things besides. It was an admirable effort, an oration trimmed with red exclusively.
And Stafford, understanding that something would, naturally, be expected of him in return, cut loose with his own store of expletives. His four years' absence from the country had left him somewhat deficient in modern Americanisms, but, during that time, as became a man handling lazy coolies, he had acquired a stock of Orientalisms that were not altogether without merit, and these he launched at the gentleman with whom he was engaged in conversation.