Good Indian by B. M. Bower (best beach reads of all time .txt) 📗

sat down and fingered her pompadour absently. “And that sure would have been interesting,” she added musingly.

“Don't let me interrupt you,” Evadna began primly. “I only came for a money order—Aunt Phoebe's sending for—”

“Never mind what you came for,” Miss Georgie cut in decisively, and laughed. “The express agent is out. You can't get your order till we've had a good talk and got each other tagged mentally—only I've tagged you long ago.”

“I thought you were the express agent. Aunt Phoebe said—”

“Nice, truthful Aunt Phoebe! I am, but I'm out—officially. I'm several things, my dear; but, for the sake of my own dignity and self-respect, I refuse to be more than one of them at a time. When I sell a ticket to Shoshone, I'm the ticket agent, and nothing else. Telegrams, I'm the operator. At certain times I'm the express agent. I admit it. But this isn't one of the times.”

She stopped and regarded her visitor with whimsical appraisement. “You'll wait till the agent returns, won't you?” And added, with a grimace: “You won't be in the way—I'm not anything official right now. I'm a neighbor, and this is my parlor—you see, I planted you on that rug, with the books at your elbow, and that geranium also; and you're in the rocker, so you're really and truly in my parlor. I'm over the line myself, and you're calling on me. Sabe? That little desk by the safe is the express office, and you can see for yourself that the agent is out.”

“Well, upon my word!” Evadna permitted herself that much emotional relief. Then she leaned her head against the cherry-colored head-rest tied to the chair with huge, cherry-colored bows, and took a deliberate survey of the room.

It was a small room, as rooms go. One corner was evidently the telegraph office, for it held a crude table, with the instruments clicking spasmodically, form pads, letter files, and mysterious things which piqued her curiosity. Over it was a railroad map and a makeshift bulletin board, which seemed to give the time of certain trains. And small-paned windows gave one sitting before the instruments an unobstructed view up and down the track. In the corner behind the door was a small safe, with door ajar, and a desk quite as small, with, “Express Office: Hours, 8 A.M. to 6 P.M.” on a card above it.

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