Success. Samuel Hopkins Adams

place. It’s only a few rods back in.”

      “I saw a light from there and that suggested to my muddled brain that I might get something to eat.”

      “So you came over here.”

      “Yes. But the fear came on me again and I didn’t dare knock. I suppose I prowled.”

      “Gardner thought he heard ghosts. But ghosts don’t steal molasses pie.”

      She looked at him solemnly. “Must one steal to get anything to eat here?”

      “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’ll get you breakfast right away. What will you have? There isn’t much.”

      “Anything there is. But if I’m to board with you, you must let me pay my way.”

      “The company is responsible for that.”

      Her brooding eyes were still fixed upon him. “You actually are the agent,” she mused. “That’s quaint.”

      “I don’t see anything quaint about it. Now, if you’ll make yourself comfortable I’ll go over to the shack and rustle something for breakfast.”

      “No; I’d rather go with you. Perhaps I can help.”

      Such help as the guest afforded was negligible. When, from sundry of the Sears-Roebuck cans and bottles, a condensed and preserved sort of meal had been derived, she set to it with a good grace.

      “There’s more of a kick in tea than in a cocktail, I believe, when you really need it,” she remarked gratefully. “You spoke of a Mr. Gardner. Who is he?”

      “A reporter who spent night before last here.”

      She dropped her cracker, oleomargarine-side down. “A reporter?”

      “He came down to write up the wreck. It’s a bad one. Nine dead, so far.”

      “Is he still here?”

      “No. Gone back to Angelica City.”

      Retrieving her cracker, the guest finished her meal, heartily but thoughtfully. She insisted on lending a hand to the washing-up process, and complimented Banneker on his neatness.

      “You haven’t told me your name yet,” he reminded her when the last shining tin was hung up.

      “No; I haven’t. What will you do with it when you get it?”

      “Report it to the company for their lists.”

      “Suppose I don’t want it reported to the company?’

      “Why on earth shouldn’t you?”

      “I may have my reasons. Would it be put in the papers?”

      “Very likely.”

      “I don’t want it in the papers,” said the girl with decision.

      “Don’t you want it known that you’re all right? Your people—”

      “I’ll wire my people. Or you can wire them for me. Can’t you?”

      “Of course. But the company has a right to know what has happened to its passengers.”

      “Not to me! What has the company done for me but wreck me and give me an awful bang on the head and lose my baggage and—Oh, I nearly forgot. I took my traveling-bag when I ran. It’s in the hut. I wonder if you would get it for me?”

      “Of course. I’ll go now.”

      “That’s good of you. And for your own self, but not your old company, I’ll tell you my name. I’m—”

      “Wait a moment. Whatever you tell me I’ll have to report.”

      “You can’t,” she returned imperiously. “It’s in confidence.”

      “I won’t accept it so.”

      “You’re a most extraordinary sta—a most extraordinary sort of man. Then I’ll give you this much for yourself, and if your company collects pet names, you can pass it on. My friends call me Io.”

      “Yes. I know. You’re I.O.W.”

      “How do you know that? And how much more do you know?”

      “No more. A man on the train reported your initials from your baggage.”

      “I’ll feel ever so much better when I have that bag. Is there a hotel near here?”

      “A sort of one at Manzanita. It isn’t very clean. But there’ll be a train through to-night and I’ll get you space on that. I’d better get a doctor for you first, hadn’t I?”

      “No, indeed! All I need is some fresh things.”

      Banneker set off at a brisk pace. He found the extravagant little traveling-case safely closed and locked, and delivered it outside his own door which was also closed and, he suspected, locked.

      “I’m thinking,” said the soft voice of the girl within. “Don’t let me interrupt your work.”

      Beneath, at his routine, Banneker also set himself to think; confused, bewildered, impossibly conjectural thoughts not unmingled with semi-official anxiety. Harboring a woman on company property, even though she were, in some sense, a charge of the company, might be open to misconceptions. He wished that the mysterious Io would declare herself.

      At noon she did. She declared herself ready for luncheon. There was about her a matter-of-fact acceptance of the situation as natural, even inevitable, which entranced Banneker when it did not appall him. After the meal was over, the girl seated herself on a low bench which Banneker had built with his own hands and the Right-and-Ready Tool Kit (9 T 603), her knee between her clasped hands and an elfish expression on her face.

      “Don’t you think,” she suggested, “that we’d get on quicker if you washed the dishes and I sat here and talked to you?”

      “Very likely.”

      “It isn’t so easy to begin, you know,” she remarked, nursing her knee thoughtfully. “Am I—Do you find me very much in the way?’ ”

      “No.”

      “Don’t suppress your wild enthusiasm on my account,” she besought him. “I haven’t interfered with your duties so far, have I?”

      “No,” answered Banneker wondering what was coming next.

      “You see”—her tone became ruminative and confidential—“if I give you my name and you report it, there’ll be all kinds of a mix-up. They’ll come after me and take me away.”

      Banneker dropped a tin on the floor and stood, staring.

      “Isn’t that what you want?”

      “It’s evident enough that it’s what you want,” she returned, aggrieved.

      “No. Not at all,” he disclaimed. “Only—well, out here—alone—I don’t understand.”

      “Can’t you understand that if one had happened to drop out of the world by chance, it might be desirable to stay out for a while?”

      “For you? No; I can’t understand that.”

      “What about yourself?” she challenged with a swift, amused gleam. “You are certainly staying out of the world here.”

      “This is my world.”

      Her eyes and voice dropped. “Truly?” she murmured. Then, as he made no reply, “It isn’t much of a world for a man.”

      To this his response touched the heights of the unexpected. He stretched out his arm toward the near window through which could be seen the white splendor of Mount Carstairs, dim in the wreathing