Part 31 (1/2)
”I wasn't speaking of the Federal Army,” explained Mr. Birdseye, desperately upset. ”I was speaking of the Federal League.”
”Oh, the Federal League!” said the other. ”I beg your pardon, suh. Are you--are you interested in baseball?” He put the question wonderingly.
”Am I interested in--well, say, ain't you interested?”
”Me? Oh, no, suh. I make it a rule never to discuss the subject. You see, I'm a divinity student. I reckon you must've mistaken me for somebody else. I was afraid so when you first spoke. I'm mighty sorry.”
”Yes, I must've,” agreed Mr. Birdseye. He got upon his own feet and stumbled over the young man's feet and ran a hand through the hair on his pestered head. ”I guess I must've got in the wrong car.”
”That's probably it,” said the pale-haired one. His odd-coloured but ingenuous countenance expressed solicitude and sympathy for the stranger's disappointment. Indeed, it wrinkled and twitched almost as though this tender-hearted person meant to shed tears. As if to hide his emotions, he suddenly reached for his discarded newspaper and in its opened pages buried his face to the ears--ears which slowly turned from pink to red. When next he spoke it was from behind the shelter of his newsprint s.h.i.+eld, and his voice seemed choked. ”Undoubtedly that's it--you got in the wrong car. Well, good-bye, my brother--and G.o.d bless and speed you.”
At this precise moment, with the train just beginning to pull out from Barstow Junction, with the light-haired man sinking deeper and deeper inside the opened sheets, and with Mr. Birdseye teetering on uncertain legs in the aisle, there came to the latter's ears what he might have heard before had his hearing been attuned for sounds from that quarter.
He heard a great rollicking, whooping, vehement outburst coming from the next car back, which was likewise the last car. It had youth in it, that sound did--the spirit of unbridled, exuberant youth at play, and abandon and deviltry and prankishness and carefreedom. Mr. Birdseye faced about.
He caught up his handbag and, swift as a courier bearing glad tidings, he sped on winged feet--at least those extensive soles almost approximated wings--through the cramped pa.s.sage flanking the smoking compartment. Where the two cars clankingly joined beneath a metal f.l.a.n.g.e he came into collision with a train butcher just emerging from the rear sleeper.
Butch's hair was dishevelled and his collar awry. He dangled an emptied fruit basket in one hand and clinked coins together in the palm of the other. On his face was a grin of comic dismay and begrudged admiration.
”Some gang back there--some wild gang!” he murmured and, dodging adeptly past Mr. Birdseye, was gone, heading forward.
The searcher rounded the jog of the compartment reservation, and inside him then his soul was lifted up and exalted. There could be no mistake now. Within the confines of this Pullman romped and rampaged young men and youths to the number of perhaps twenty. There seemed to be more than twenty of them; that, though, was due to the flitting movements of their rambunctious forms. Norfolk-jacketed bodies, legs in modishly short trousers deeply cuffed at the bottoms, tousled heads to which rakish soft hats and plaid travelling caps adhered at angles calculated to upset the theory of the attraction of gravitation, showed here, there, everywhere, in a confused and s.h.i.+fting vista. Snappy suit cases, a big, awkward-looking, cylindrical bag of canvas, leather-faced, and two or three other boxes in which, to judge by their shapes, stringed musical instruments were temporarily entombed, enc.u.mbered a seat near by.
All this Mr. Birdseye's kindled eye comprehended in the first quick scrutiny. Also it took in the posture of a long, lean, lanky giant in his early twenties, who stood midway of the coach, balancing himself easily on his legs, for by now the train was picking up speed. One arm of the tall athlete--the left--was laid along his breast, and in its crook it held several small, half-ripened oranges. His right hand would pluck up an orange, the right arm would wind up, and then with marvellous accuracy and incredible velocity the missile would fly, like a tawny-green streak, out of an open window at some convenient target.
So fast he worked and so well, it seemed as though a constant stream of citrus was being discharged through that particular window. An orange spattered against a signpost marking the limits of the yard. Two oranges in instantaneous succession struck the rounded belly of a water tank, making twin yellow asterisks where they hit. A fourth, driven as though by a piston, whizzed past the nappy head of a darky pedestrian who had halted to watch the train go by. That darky ducked just in time.
Mr. Birdseye lunged forward to pay tribute to the sharpshooter. Beyond peradventure there could be but one set of muscles on this continent capable of such marksmans.h.i.+p. But another confronted him, barring his way, a stockily built personage with a wide, humorous face, and yet with authority in all its contour and lines.
”Well, see who's here!” he clarioned and literally he embraced Mr.
Birdseye, pinning that gentleman's arms to his sides. He bent his head and put his lips close to Mr. Birdseye's flattered ear, the better to be heard above the uproar dinning about them. ”What was the name?” he inquired.
”Birdseye--J. Henry Birdseye.”
Continuing to maintain a firm grasp upon Mr. Birdseye's coat sleeve the stocky individual swung about and called for attention:
”Gentlemen, one moment--one moment, if you please.”
Plainly he had unquestioned dominion over this mad and pranksome crew.
His fellows paused in whatever they were doing to give heed unto his words.
”Boys, it gives me joy to introduce to you Colonel Birdshot.”
”Birdseye,” corrected his prisoner, overcome with gratification, not unmixed with embarra.s.sment.
”I beg your pardon,” said the master of ceremonies. Then more loudly again: ”I should have said Col. Birdseye Maple.”
”Three cheers for the walking bedroom set!” This timely suggestion emanated from a wiry skylarker who had drawn nigh and was endeavouring to find Mr. Birdseye's hand with a view to shaking it.
Three cheers they were, and right heartily given too.
”And to what, may I ask--to what are we indebted for the pleasure of this unexpected but nevertheless happy meeting?” asked the blocky man.