Part 14 (1/2)
Waterman made room for his friends, and depositing their luggage on the floor they sat down opposite him. As the train moved slowly out of the station, Howard-Jones sauntered into the car and took the seat remaining, next to Waterman.
”Well, how is Chicago?” Waterman asked Duncan.
”Don't talk to him about Chicago,” interrupted Van Vort. ”Don't you know he has just come from London?”
”Of course I do, but I know all about London. I want to hear about Mr.
Breezy and Miss Lakeside, and all the other queer people one reads about in _Life_ and _Puck_. Don't you remember the last time we saw Duncan? He was going gunning for elevators, and I want to hear about them. How are the pork-packers, Duncan?”
”I didn't meet any.”
”What, and you went to Chicago!”
”Exactly,” Duncan replied. ”They say there that one has to go away to meet them. The right sort don't seem to know them.”
”What were the people like, anyway?” asked Howard-Jones.
”The women are dears, some of the men are queer, most of them are pa.s.sable, and a few are the whitest chaps I ever came across. I was treated like a prince. I lived at the City Club, and they could not do enough for me there.”
”Did you get anything fit to eat?” asked Howard-Jones dubiously.
”You must imagine the people out there eat jerked venison and dine in their s.h.i.+rt-sleeves,” replied Duncan. ”They don't live in wigwams, and buffalo don't run wild in the streets.”
”Don't get huffy, Duncan; I was only judging by what I had heard. You remember what Waterman said about Chicago.”
”Yes, and I repeat again,” replied that worthy, ”it is the beastliest hole it has ever been my luck to get stranded in.”
”Then you display your ignorance,” said Duncan.
”I admit I have heard something about Chicago being the centre of the universe,” retorted Waterman, ”but I thought that opinion was confined to the breezy inhabitants of the windy city.”
”Well, in my opinion,” said Duncan, ”Chicago isn't a half bad place.
'Tisn't New York, of course, but you can't expect that. They've got most of the things there that we have, and some that we haven't. There's one thing about the people, too, that I like; they keep awake when the rest of the world is dozing, and that is bound to tell in the end.”
”That's right, Duncan,” echoed Van Vort.
”Sit down on sectional ignorance and prejudice. New Yorkers are getting to be as provincial as Parisians, and it is time they learned that the sun doesn't rise and set on Manhattan Island.”
”You are all wrong, Rennsler,” answered Howard-Jones. ”Duncan is drawing a big salary for booming Chicago real estate; you'd do the same thing if you got paid for it.”
”No back talk, Hyphenated-Jones,” said Duncan facetiously. ”Just crawl behind that French novel and don't let me hear from you again.”
”I will if you will shut up about Chicago; you make me weary.”
”Anything to keep you quiet,” answered Duncan.
The four friends gradually settled themselves behind afternoon papers or novels, and remained silent. The train rattled on through small suburban towns and now and then drew up before a dainty, vine-covered station, with low walls and high gabled roofs, where the brakeman put his head inside the door and called off some name in unintelligible accents.
People got out hurriedly, their arms filled with packages of all descriptions, the door slammed, the train started, the newsboy pa.s.sed through with the papers, pop-corn, puzzles, and everything else that n.o.body wanted, the conductor poked dozing pa.s.sengers for their tickets, the atmosphere grew blue with smoke, and the minutes pa.s.sed with the exasperating slowness of time spent on a suburban train.
”I say, Duncan,” said Waterman, yawning behind his paper, ”how would you like to take this trip twice a day?”