“I’m not going to-night,” he said, in response to her question. “I’m looking after the office car so Hartshorn can go. The poor fellows here haven’t had a holiday for months, and my life lately has been pretty much all holidays, especially—the past week.”
“I should very much like to see the Red Triangle outfit,” said Madelaine.
“And I’d like you to meet some of the Czechs. They’re the finest chaps on earth! They call us Y. men the ‘Little Uncles from America.’”
“It wouldn’t require much persuasion to make me forget they were giving us a dance to-night,” said Madelaine softly.
II
The Y. cars serving the Czechs had been permanently shunted off on a western spur, a mile south of the big main station. They were great Manchurian freight cars, sheathed inside and made habitable with doors, windows and stove-pipe chimneys. All of the service and recreational paraphernalia supplied to Red Triangle huts in France was also supplied to these club cars. There could be no huts in Siberia. There was no trench fighting. Armies maneuvered too swiftly, principally by rail.
Every Czech in every car arose as Madelaine passed through. An American Red Cross nurse! They held their caps in their hands. They were gentlemen, every man of them,—college-bred—lawyers, professors, doctors, artists, high-caste tradesmen. In one car Madelaine halted in astonishment before a painting in oils done upon the boards of the inside wall from materials which came from God-knew-where. It was “The Burning of John Huss,” the great Bohemian patriot, executed with a craft fitting to hang in any art gallery. The graceful young officer in charge spoke English. He laughed deprecatingly.
“Ah, it eese nothing. One man, he paint eet because he have much time and nothing other to do.”
Madelaine and Nathan came finally to the caboose car, Hartshorn’s combination office and living quarters. In addition to the sheet-iron stove and shelf-table were a desk, an oil lamp, a few wooden chairs. Nathan lighted the oil lamp and poked the fire, throwing in several new billets of wood. It was then about half-past eight.
“Let’s sit here and rest and—talk,” begged Madelaine. “The crowd won’t return until midnight or after; there’s no necessity for hurrying back.”