Chip, of the Flying U | Page 4

looked expectantly
into the cheerless waiting room, gazed after the train, which seemed the
last link between her and civilization, and walked to the edge of the
platform with a distinct frown upon the bit of forehead visible under

her felt hat.
A fat young man threw the mail sack into a weather-beaten buggy and
drove leisurely down the track to the post office. The girl watched him
out of sight and sighed disconsolately. All about her stretched the
rolling grass land, faintly green in the hollows, brownly barren on the
hilltops. Save the water tank and depot, not a house was to be seen, and
the silence and loneliness oppressed her.
The agent was dragging some boxes off the platform. She turned and
walked determinedly up to him, and the agent became embarrassed
under her level look.
"Isn't there anyone here to meet me?" she demanded, quite needlessly.
"I am Miss Whitmore, and my brother owns a ranch, somewhere near
here. I wrote him, two weeks ago, that I was coming, and I certainly
expected him to meet me." She tucked a wind-blown lock of brown
hair under her hat crown and looked at the agent reproachfully, as if he
were to blame, and the agent, feeling suddenly that somehow the fault
was his, blushed guiltily and kicked at a box of oranges.
"Whitmore's rig is in town," he said, hastily. "I saw his man at dinner.
The train was reported late, but she made up time." Grasping
desperately at his dignity, he swallowed an abject apology and retreated
into the office.
Miss Whitmore followed him a few steps, thought better of it, and
paced the platform self-pityingly for ten minutes, at the end of which
the Flying U rig whirled up in a cloud of dust, and the agent hurried out
to help with the two trunks, and the mandolin and guitar in their canvas
cases.
The creams circled fearsomely up to the platform and stood quivering
with eagerness to be off, their great eyes rolling nervously. Miss
Whitmore took her place beside Chip with some inward trepidation
mingled with her relief. When they were quite ready and the reins
loosened suggestively, Pet stood upon her hind feet with delight and
Polly lunged forward precipitately.

The girl caught her breath, and Chip eyed her sharply from the corner
of his eye. He hoped she was not going to scream--he detested
screaming women. She looked young to be a doctor, he decided, after
that lightning survey. He hoped to goodness she wasn't of the Sweet
Young Thing order; he had no patience with that sort of woman. Truth
to tell, he had no patience with ANY sort of woman.
He spoke to the horses authoritatively, and they obeyed and settled to a
long, swinging trot that knew no weariness, and the girl's heart returned
to its normal action.
Two miles were covered in swift silence, then Miss Whitmore brought
herself to think of the present and realized that the young man beside
her had not opened his lips except to speak once to his team. She turned
her head and regarded him curiously, and Chip, feeling the scrutiny,
grew inwardly defiant.
Miss Whitmore decided, after a close inspection, that she rather liked
his looks, though he did not strike her as a very amiable young man.
Perhaps she was a bit tired of amiable young men. His face was thin,
and refined, and strong--the strength of level brows, straight nose and
square chin, with a pair of paradoxical lips, which were curved and
womanish in their sensitiveness; the refinement was an intangible
expression which belonged to no particular feature but pervaded the
whole face. As to his eyes, she was left to speculate upon their color,
since she had not seen them, but she reflected that many a girl would
give a good deal to own his lashes.
Of a sudden he turned his eyes from the trail and met her look squarely.
If he meant to confuse her, he failed--for she only smiled and said to
herself: "They're hazel."
"Don't you think we ought to introduce ourselves?" she asked,
composedly, when she was quite sure the eyes were not brown.
"Maybe." Chip's tone was neutrally polite.
Miss Whitmore had suspected that he was painfully bashful, after the

manner of country young men. She now decided that he was not; he
was passively antagonistic.
"Of course you know that I'm Della Whitmore," she said.
Chip carefully brushed a fly off Polly's flank with the whip.
"I took it for granted. I was sent to meet a Miss Whitmore at the train,
and I took the only lady in sight."
"You took the right one--but I'm not--I haven't the faintest idea who
you are."
"My name is Claude Bennett, and I'm happy to