Under a small window opening upon the platform was another little table, with indications of occasional ticket-selling upon it. And in the end of the room where she sat were various little adornments—“art” calendars, a few books, fewer potted plants, a sewing-basket, and two rugs upon the floor, with a rocker for each. Also there was a tiny, square table, with a pack of cards scattered over it.
“Exactly. You have it sized up correctly, my dear.” Miss Georgie Howard nodded her—head three times, and her eyes were mirthful. “It’s a game. I made it a game. I had to, in self-defense. Otherwise—” She waved a hand conspicuous for its white plumpness and its fingers tapering beautifully to little, pink nails immaculately kept. “I took at the job and the place just as it stands, without anything in the way of mitigation. Can you see yourself holding it down for longer than a week? I’ve been here a month.”
“I think,” Evadna ventured, “it must be fun.”
“Oh, yes. It’s fun—if you make fun of it. However, before we settle down for a real visit, I’ve a certain duty to perform, if you will excuse my absence for a moment. Incidentally,” she added, getting lazily out of the chair, “it will illustrate just how I manage my system.”
Her absence was purely theoretical. She stepped off the rug, went to the “express office,” and took a card from the desk. When she had stood it upright behind the inkwell, Evadna read in large, irregular capitals:
“OUT. WILL BE BACK LATER.”
Miss Georgie Howard paid no attention to the little giggle which went with the reading, but stepped across to the ticket desk and to the telegraph table, and put similar cards on display. Then she came back to the rug, plumped down in her rocker with a sigh of relief, and reached for a large, white box—the five pounds of chocolates which she had sent for.
“I never eat candy when I’m in the office,” she observed soberly. “I consider it unprofessional. Help yourself as liberally as your digestion will stand—and for Heaven’s sake, gossip a little! Tell me all about that bunch of nifty lads I see cavorting around the store occasionally—and especially about the polysyllabic gentleman who seems to hang out at the Peaceful Hart ranch. I’m terribly taken with him. He—excuse me, chicken. There’s a fellow down the line hollering his head off. Wait till I see what he wants.”
Again she left the rug, stepped to the telegraph instrument, and fingered the key daintily until she had, with the other hand, turned down the “out” card. Then she threw the switch, rattled an impatient reply, and waited, listening to the rapid clicking of the sounder. Her eyes and her mouth hardened as she read.
“Cad!” she gritted under her breath. Her fingers were spiteful as they clicked the key in answer. She slammed the current off, set up the “out” notice again, kicked the desk chair against the wall, and came back to the “parlor” breathing quickly.
“I think it must be perfectly fascinating to talk that way to persons miles off,” said Evadna, eying the chittering sounder with something approaching awe. “I watched your fingers, and tried to imagine what it was they were saying—but I couldn’t even guess.”
Miss Georgie Howard laughed queerly. “No, I don’t suppose you could,” she murmured, and added, with a swift glance at the other: “They said, ‘You go to the devil.’” She held up the offending hand and regarded it intently. “You wouldn’t think it of them, would you? But they have to say things sometimes—in self-defense. There are two or three fresh young men along the line that can’t seem to take a hint unless you knock them in the head with it.”
She cast a malevolent look at the clicking instrument. “He’s trying to square himself,” she observed carelessly. “But, unfortunately, I’m out. He seems on the verge of tears, poor thing.”
She poked investigatingly among the chocolates, and finally selected a delectable morsel with epicurean care.
“You haven’t told me about the polysyllabic young man,” she reminded. “He has held my heart in bondage since he said to Pete Hamilton yesterday in the store—ah—” She leaned and barely reached a slip of paper which was lying upon a row of books. “I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget it,” she explained parenthetically. “He said to Pete, in the store, just after Pete had tried to say something funny with the usual lamentable failure—um—‘You are mentally incapable of recognizing the line of demarcation between legitimate persiflage and objectionable familiarity.’ Now, I want to know what sort of a man, under fifty and not a college professor, would—or could—say that without studying it first. It sounded awfully impromptu and easy—and yet he looks—well, cowboyish. What sort of a young man is he?”
“He’s a perfectly horrid young man.” Evadna leaned to help herself to more chocolates. “He—well, just to show you how horrid, he calls me a—a Christmas angel! And—”
“Did he!” Miss Georgie eyed her measuringly between bites. “Tag him as being intelligent, a keen observer, with the ability to express himself—” She broke off, and turned her head ungraciously toward the sounder, which seemed to be repeating something over and over with a good deal of insistence. “That’s Shoshone calling,” she said, frowning attentively. “They’ve got an old crank up there in the office—I’d know his touch among a million—and when he calls he means business. I’ll have to speak up, I suppose.” She sighed, tucked a chocolate into her cheek, and went scowling to the table. “Can’t the idiot see I’m out?” she complained whimsically. “What’s that card for, I wonder?”
She threw the switch, rattled a reply, and then, as the sounder settled down to a steady click-clickety-click-click, she drew a pad toward her, pulled up the chair with her foot, sat down, and began to write the message as it came chattering over the wire. When it was finished and the sounder quiet, her hand awoke to life upon the key. She seemed to be repeating the message, word for word. When she was done, she listened, got her answer, threw off the switch with a sweep of her thumb, and fumbled among the papers on the table until she found an envelope. She addressed it with a hasty scrawl of her pencil, sealed it with a vicious little spat of her hand, and then sat looking down upon it thoughtfully.
“I suppose I’ve got to deliver that immediately, at once, without delay,” she said. “There’s supposed to be an answer. Chicken, some queer things happen in this business. Here’s that weak-eyed, hollow-chested Saunders, that seems to have just life enough to put in about ten hours a day reading ‘The Duchess,’ getting cipher messages like the hero of a detective story. And sending them, too, by the way. We operators are not supposed to think; but all the same—” She got her receipt-book, filled rapidly a blank line, tucked it under her arm, and went up and tapped Evadna lightly upon the head with the envelope. “Want to come along? Or would you rather stay here? I won’t be more than two minutes.”
She was gone five; and she returned with a preoccupied air which lasted until she had disposed of three chocolates and was carefully choosing a fourth.
“Chicken,” she said then, quietly, “do you know anything about your uncle and his affairs?” And added immediately: “The chances are ten to one you don’t, and wouldn’t if you lived there till you were gray?”
“I know he’s perfectly lovely,” Evadna asserted warmly. “And so is Aunt Phoebe.”
“To be sure.” Miss Georgie smiled indulgently. “I quite agree with you. And by the way, I met that polysyllabic cowboy again—and I discovered that, on the whole, my estimate was incorrect. He’s emphatically monosyllabic. I said sixteen nice things to him while I was waiting for Pete to wake up Saunders; and he answered in words of one syllable; one word, of one syllable. I’m beginning to feel that I’ve simply got to know that young man. There are deeps there which I am wild to explore. I never met any male human in the least like him. Did you? So absolutely—ah—inscrutable,