We turned to our journey with premonitions of sorrowful ill.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
SHORT’S CUT-OFF.
“Dear Mr. Wade:—
“We are hastening on. I can write you but one word. Our journey has been prosperous. Mr. Armstrong is very kind. My dear father, I fear, is shattered out of all steadiness. God guard him, and guide me! My undying love to your friend.
“Your sister,
“Ellen Clitheroe.”
Armstrong handed us this note at St. Louis. Biddulph, once a sentimental pinkling, now a bronzed man of the wilds, exhibited for this occasion only the phenomenon of a brace or so of tears. I loved him for his strong sorrow.
“It’s not for myself, Wade,” he said. “I can stand her loving John, and not knowing that she has me for brother too; I’m not of the lacrymose classes; but this mad error of the father and this hopeless faithfulness of the daughter touches me tenderly. And here we are three weeks or more behind them.”
“Yes,” said Armstrong, “full three weeks to the notch; an ef ayry one of you boys sets any store by ’em, you’d better be pintin’ along their trail afore it gets cold. That’s what I allow. He’s onsafe,—the old man is. As fine-hearted a bein’ as ever was; but luck has druv him out of hisself and made a reg’lar gonoph of him.”
“Gonoph is vernacular for Drapetomaniac, I suppose,” said I; “and a better word it is. Miss Ellen bore the journey well, Armstrong?”