Success. Samuel Hopkins Adams

the vehicle of his professional activities had for some years been a small and stertorous automobile locally known as “Puffy Pete,” Mr. James Mindle always referred to his process of postal transfer from the station to the town as “teamin’ over the mail.” He was a frail, grinny man from the prairie country, much given to romantic imaginings and an inordinate admiration for Banneker.

      Having watched from the seat of his chariot the brief but ceremonial entry of Number Three, which, on regular schedule, roared through Manzanita at top speed, he descended, captured the mail-bag and, as the transcontinental pulled out, accosted the station-agent.

      “What’d she stop for, Ban?”

      “Special orders.”

      “Didn’t say nothin’ about havin’ a ravin’ may-ni-ac aboard, did theh?”

      “No.”

      “Ban, was you ever in the State of Ohio?”

      “A long time ago.”

      “Are Ohio folks liable to be loony?”

      “Not more than others, I reckon, Jimmy.”

      “Pretty enthoosiastic about themselves, though, ain’t theh?”

      “Why, I don’t know. It’s a nice country there, Jimmy.”

      “There was one on Number Three sure thought so. Hadn’t scarcely come to a stop when off he jumps and waves his fins and gives three cheers for it.”

      “For what?”

      “Ohio. I’m tellin’ you. He ramps across the track yippin’ ‘Ohio! Ohio! Ohio!’ whoopity-yoop. He come right at me and I says, ‘Watch yehself, Buddy. You’ll git left.’ ”

      “What did he say to that?” asked Banneker indulgently.

      “Never looked at me no more than a doodle-bug. Just yelled ‘Ohio!’ again. So I come back at him with ‘Missourah.’ He grabs me by the shoulder and points to your shack. ‘Who owns that little shed?’ says he, very excited. ‘My friend, Mr. Banneker,’ says I, polite as always to strangers. ‘But I own that shoulder you’re leanin’ on, and I’m about to take it away with me when I go,’ I says. He leaned off and says, ‘Where did that young lady come from that was standin’ in the doorway a minute ago?’ ‘Young lady,’ Ban. Do you get that? So I says, ‘You’re lucky, Bud. When I get ’em, it’s usually snakes and bugs and such-like rep-tyles. Besides,’ I says, ‘your train is about to forgit that you got off it,’ I says. With that he gives another screech that don’t even mean as much as Ohio and tails onto the back platform just in time.”

      Said Ban, after frowning consideration:

      “You didn’t see any lady around the shack, did you, Jimmy?”

      “Not on your life,” replied the little man indignantly. “I ain’t had anything like that since I took the mail-teamin’ contract.”

      “How good time do you think Puffy Pete could make across-desert in case I should want it?” inquired the agent after a pause.

      The mail-man contemplated his “team,” bubbling and panting a vaporous breath over the platform. “Pete ain’t none too fond of sand,” he confessed. “But if you want to git anywhere, him and me’ll git you there. You know that, Ban.”

      Banneker nodded comradely and the post chugged away.

      Inside the shack Io had set out the luncheon-things. To Banneker’s eyes she appeared quite unruffled, despite the encounter which he had surmised from Jimmy’s sketch.

      “Get me some flowers for the table, Ban,” she directed. “I want it to look festive.”

      “Why, in particular?”

      “Because I’m afraid we won’t have many more luncheons together.”

      He made no comment, but went out and returned with the flowers. Meantime Io had made up her mind.

      “I’ve had an unpleasant surprise, Ban.”

      “I was afraid so.”

      She glanced up quickly. “Did you see him?”

      “No. Mindle, the mail transfer man, did.”

      “Oh! Well, that was Aleck Babson. ‘Babbling Babson,’ he’s called at the clubs. He’s the most inveterate gossip in New York.”

      “It’s a long way from New York,” pointed out Banneker.

      “Yes; but he has a long tongue. Besides, he’ll see the Westerleys and my other friends in Paradiso, and babble to them.”

      “Suppose he does?”

      “I won’t have people chasing here after me or pestering me with letters,” she said passionately. “Yet I don’t want to go away. I want to get more rested, Ban, and forget a lot of things.”

      He nodded. Comfort and comprehension were in his silence.

      “You can be as companionable as a dog,” said Io softly. “Where did you get your tact, I wonder? Well, I shan’t go till I must. … Lemonade, Ban! I brought over the lemons myself.”

      They lunched a little soberly and thoughtfully.

      “And I wanted it to be festive to-day,” said Io wistfully, speaking out her thoughts as usual. “Ban, does Miss Camilla smoke?”

      “I don’t know. Why?”

      “Because if she does, you’ll think it all right. And I want a cigarette now.”

      “If you do, I’ll know it’s all right, Butterfly,” returned her companion fetching a box from a shelf.

      “Hold the thought!” cried Io gayly. “There’s a creed for you! ‘Whatever is, is right,’ provided that it’s Io who does it. Always judge me by that standard, Ban, won’t you? … Where in the name of Sir Walter Raleigh’s ghost did you get these cigarettes? ‘Mellorosa’ … Ban, is this a Sears-Roebuck stock?”

      “No. It came from town. Don’t you like it?”

      “It’s quite curious and interesting. Never mind, my dear; I won’t tease you.”

      For all that Io’s “my dear” was the most casual utterance imaginable, it brought a quick flush to Banneker’s face. Chattering carelessly, she washed up the few dishes, put them away in the brackets, and then, smoking another of the despised Mellorosas, wandered to the book-shelves.

      “Read me something out of your favorite book, Ban. … No; this one.”

      She handed him the thick mail-order catalogue. With a gravity equal to her own he took it.

      “What will you have?”

      “Let the spirit of Sears-Roebuck decide. Open at random and expound.”

      He thrust a finger between the leaves and began:

      “Our Special, Fortified Black Fiber Trunk for Hard Travel. Made of Three-Ply Ven—”

      “Oh, to have my trunks again!” sighed the girl. “Turn to something else. I don’t like that. It reminds me of travel.”

      Obedient, Banneker made another essay:

      “Clay County Clay Target Traps. Easily Adjusted to the Elevation—”

      “Oh, dear!” she broke in again. “That reminds me that Dad wrote me to look up his pet shot-gun before his return. I don’t like that either. Try again.”

      This time the explorer plunged deep into the volume.

      “How to Make Home Home-like. An Invaluable Counselor for the Woman of the Household—”

      Io