He reviewed the subject of his greeting from all possible sides, and decided that, in view of the many endearing phrases which Miss Livingston’s letters had contained and the neat border of “o’s,” labeled “kisses,” which had ornamented her last letter, he could feel reasonably safe in planting a chaste salute upon her trembling lips. Also he wondered how long it would be before he could hint at a small loan.
When they returned from their bridal tour they would take the best room in the hotel at the Agency, and he and work would be strangers ever after. He would send to Great Falls for a top buggy, and buy a mate to drive with his brown colt. He would get a long, fawn-colored overcoat and a diamond ring. He paused in the erection of his air castle to read again the letter which had reached him just before his departure.
“i will be at the Depo in a purple Satin wast with red roses in my Hat you can’t help but see me,” said the penciled lines. “i am tickled to deth that you are coming be Sure an com on the 3.37 thursday o how can i wait till then.”
Laney smiled contentedly and returned the letter to his pocket. For the hundredth time he consulted the time-table. “Jimminy Christmas!—only three hours more!” He hastened to wash his hands and face, having postponed that ceremony until he should near Oak Grove. The bosom of his pleated shirt was rumpled, and his dress clothes showed that he had slept in them; but trifles could not mar his happiness. He oiled his black hair from a small bottle containing bear grease scented with bergamot, and adjusted his cravat that the horseshoe might show to advantage.
When after a century of nervous tension the train whistled at the outskirts of Oak Grove, Laney’s knees were trembling beneath him and it seemed as though the thumping of his heart would choke him. He swallowed hard as, the solitary arrival, he descended the car steps and looked about him.
There was a flash of purple satin and an avalanche seemed to bury Laney in a moist embrace.
“Hyar yo’ is, honey!” cried a ringing, triumphant voice in his ear as he struggled to free himself. “Ah knowed you’d come!”
“Good Gawd!” cried Laney as he broke loose and jumped back. “Black! Black as a camp coffee-pot!”
“Yes, honey, I’se black, but I’se lovin’!” and Miss Livingston advanced upon him with sparkling eyes and an expanse of gleaming ivories.
“What for a game you been giving me?” demanded Laney, retreating to the edge of the platform. “You said you were the daughter of a Southern planter.”