Ruth Fielding In the Saddle; College Girls in the Land of Gold. Emerson Alice B.

car where the porter had already folded up the berths!

      “Good gracious, Agnes!” gasped Tom, appearing in the corridor with his shoes in his hand. “What time is it? Eight-thirty? Is my watch right?”

      “Ah reckon so, boss,” grinned the porter. “‘Most ev’rybody’s up an’ dressin’.”

      “And I wanted to send those telegrams from Janesburg.”

      “Oh Lawsy-massy! Janesburg’s a good ways behint us, boss,” said the porter. “Ef yo’ wants to send ’em pertic’lar from dere, yo’ll have to wait till our trip East, Ah reckon.”

      Tom did not feel much like laughing. In fact, he felt a good deal of annoyance. He made some further enquiries and discovered that it would be an hour yet before the train would linger long enough at any station for him to file telegrams.

      They spent one more night “sleeping on shelves,” as Jennie Stone expressed it, than they had counted upon. Miss Cullam went to her berth with a groan.

      “Believe me, my dears,” she announced, “I shall welcome even a saddle as a relief from these cars. You are all nice girls, if I do say it, who perhaps shouldn’t. I flatter myself I have had something to do with molding your more or less plastic minds and dispositions. But I must love you a great deal to ever attempt another such long journey as this for you or with you.”

      “Oh, Miss Cullam!” cried Trix Davenport, “we will erect a statue to you on Bliss Island – right near the Stone Face. And on it shall be engraved: ‘Nor granite is more enduring than Miss Cullam.’”

      “I wonder,” murmured the teacher, “if that is complimentary or otherwise?”

      But they all loved her. Miss Cullam developed very human qualities indeed, take her away from mathematics!

      The party was held up for two hours at Kingman, waiting for a local train to steam on with them to their destination. And there Tom learned something which rather troubled him.

      Telegrams were never received direct at Yucca. The railroad business was done by telephone, and all the messages sent to Yucca were telephoned through to the station agent – if that individual chanced to be on hand. Otherwise they were entrusted to the rural mail carrier. One could almost count the inhabitants of Yucca on one’s fingers and toes!

      “Jiminy!” gasped Tom, when he learned these particulars. “I bet I’ve made a mess of it.”

      He tried to find out at the Kingman station what had become of the final messages he had sent. The operator on duty when they arrived was now off duty, and he lived out of town.

      “If they were mailed, son,” observed the man then at the telegraph table, “you will get to Yucca about two hours before the mail gets there. Here comes your train now.”

      Had the girls not been so gaily engaged in chattering, they must have noticed Tom’s solemn face. He was disturbed, for he felt that the comfort of the party, as well as the arrangements for the trip into the hills, was his own particular responsibility.

      It was late afternoon when the combination local (half baggage and freight, and half passenger) hobbled to a stop at Yucca. Besides a dusty looking individual in a cap who served the railroad as station agent, there was not a human being in sight.

      “What a jolly place!” cried Jennie Stone, turning to all points of the compass to gaze. “So much life! We’re going to have a gay time in Yucca, I can see.”

      “Sh!” begged Trix. “Don’t wake them up.”

      “Awaken whom, my dear?” drawled Sally Blanchard.

      “The dead, I think,” said Helen. “This place must be the understudy for a graveyard.”

      At that moment a gray muzzle was thrust between the rails of a corral beside the track and an awful screech rent the air, drowning the sound of the locomotive whistle as the train rolled away.

      “For goodness’ sake! what is that?” begged Rebecca, quite startled.

      “Mountain canary,” laughed Helen. “That is what will arouse you at dawn – and other times – while we are on the march to Freezeout.”

      “You don’t mean to say,” demanded Trix, “that all that sound came out of that little creature?” And she ran over to the corral fence the better to see the burro.

      “And he didn’t need any help,” drawled Jennie. “Oh! you’ll get used to little things like that.”

      “Never to that little thing,” said Miss Cullam, tartly. “Can’t he be muzzled?”

      Meanwhile Tom had seized upon the station agent. He was a long, lean, “drawly” man, with seemingly a very languid interest in life.

      “What telegrams?” he drawled.

      Tom explained more fully and the man referred to a memorandum book he carried in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt.

      “Yep. Three messages received over the ’phone from Kingman station. All delivered.”

      “Good!” Tom exclaimed, with vast relief.

      “Four days ago,” added the station agent.

      That was a dash of cold water. “Didn’t you receive other telegrams in the same way yesterday?”

      “Not a one.”

      “Where have they gone, then?”

      “I wouldn’t be here ’twixt eight and ‘leven. They’d come over the wire to Kingman, and the op’rator there would mail ’em. Mail man’s due any time now.”