The Portygee | Page 5

from under the wagon seat and held it up so
that its glow shone upon the face of the youth standing by the wheel.
"Hum," he mused. "Don't seem to favor Janie much, does he, Doc.
Kind of got her mouth and chin, though. Remember that sort of
good-lookin' set to her mouth she had? And SHE got it from old Cap'n
Lo himself. This boy's face must be more like his pa's, I cal'late. Don't
you cal'late so, Doc?"
Whether Doctor Holliday cal'lated so or not he did not say. It may be
that he thought this cool inspection of and discussion concerning a

stranger, even a juvenile stranger, somewhat embarrassing to its object.
Or the lantern light may have shown him an ominous pucker between
the boy's black brows and a flash of temper in the big black eyes
beneath them. At any rate, instead of replying to Mr. Young, he said,
kindly:
"Yes, Captain Snow lives in the village. If you are going to his house
get right in here. I live close by, myself."
"Darned sure!" agreed Mr. Young, with enthusiasm. "Hop right in,
sonny."
But the boy hesitated. Then, haughtily ignoring the driver, he said: "I
thought Captain Snow would be here to meet me. He wrote that he
would."
The irrepressible Jim had no idea of remaining ignored. "Did Cap'n
Lote write you that he'd be here to the depot?" he demanded. "All right,
then he'll be here, don't you fret. I presume likely that everlastin' mare
of his has eat herself sick again; eh, Doc? By godfreys domino, the way
they pet and stuff that fool horse is a sin and a shame. It ain't Lote's
fault so much as 'tis his wife's-- she's responsible. Don't you fret, Bub,
the cap'n'll be here for you some time to-night. If he said he'll come
he'll come, even if he has to hire one of them limmysines. He, he, he!
All you've got to do is wait, and . . . Hey! . . . Hold on a minute! . . .
Bub!"
The boy was walking away. And to hail him as "Bub" was, although
Jim Young did not know it, the one way least likely to bring him back.
"Bub!" shouted Jim again. Receiving no reply he added what he had
intended saying. "If I run afoul of Cap'n Lote anywheres on the road,"
he called, "I'll tell him you're here a-waitin'. So long, Bub. Git dap,
Chain Lightnin'."
The horse, thus complimented, pricked up one ear, lifted a foot, and
jogged off. The depot wagon became merely a shadowy smudge
against the darkness of the night. For a few minutes the "chock, chock"

of the hoofs upon the frozen road and the rattle of wheels gave audible
evidence of its progress. Then these died away and upon the windswept
platform of the South Harniss station descended the black gloom of
lonesomeness so complete as to make that which had been before seem,
by comparison, almost cheerful.
The youth upon that platform turned up his coat collar, thrust his
gloved hands into his pockets, and shivered. Then, still shivering, he
took a brisk walk up and down beside the suitcase and, finally,
circumnavigated the little station. The voyage of discovery was
unprofitable; there was nothing to discover. So far as he could
see--which was by no means far--upon each side of the building was
nothing but bare fields and tossing pines, and wind and cold and
blackness. He came to anchor once more by the suitcase and drew a
long, hopeless breath.
He thought of the cheery dining room at the school he had left the day
before. Dinner would be nearly over by now. The fellows were having
dessert, or, probably, were filing out into the corridors, the younger
chaps to go to the study hall and the older ones--the lordly seniors, of
whom he had been one--on the way to their rooms. The picture of his
own cheerful, gay room in the senior corridor was before his mind; of
that room as it was before the telegram came, before the lawyer came
with the letter, before the end of everything as he knew it and the
beginning of--this. He had not always loved and longed for that school
as he loved and longed for it now. There had been times when he
referred to it as "the old jail," and professed to hate it. But it had been
the only real home he had known since he was eight years old and now
he looked back upon it as a fallen angel might have looked back upon
Paradise. He sighed again, choked and hastily drew his gloved hand
across his eyes. At the age of seventeen it is very unmanly to cry, but,