“Why, that’s very kind of you,” said Mr. Wellaway, “but I could not think of it. My own wife will be worrying. I’ll just scoot through the rain to the station and get the first train home.”
“Of course, if you think best,” said the host. “We have to pass the station on the way to my house. But Sarah would be glad to put you up for the night.”
The station was not as far as Mr. Wellaway had feared, for it was not necessary to walk to the main station; there was another nearer, and they reached it a few minutes before a train for the city was due. Mr. Wellaway’s host walked to the ticket-window.
“I presume the train is late,” he asked.
“You presume exactly right,” said the young man in the ticket-office. “She’s not only late, but she’s going to be later before she ever gets to New York. The lightning struck the Bloom Street bridge, and the bridge went up like fireworks. It will be about twenty-four hours before anybody from this town gets to New York.”
“Twenty-four hours!” exclaimed Mr. Wellaway, aghast. “But I can telegraph.”
“If you can, you can do more than I can do,” said the young man. “I’ve tried, and I can’t do it, and I’m a professional.”
“Well!” said Mr. Wellaway.
“All right,” said his host. “Now there’s nothing for you to do but accept my invitation, and I make it doubly warm. Sarah will be delighted. You are the first guest we’ve had for the night since we moved out here. She’ll be delighted, I tell you. And so will I.”
