The trolley my companion meant to catch
was, however, the last one; my only hope, therefore, was to motor a
distance of perhaps a dozen miles, over roads which I was frankly told
were "middling to bad," and try to catch a train at The Plains station.
If I missed this train, I was lost, and must spend a solitary night in
such a room as I might be able to find in a strange village. That
possibility did not appeal to me. I began to wish that there was no such
thing as fox-hunting, or that, there being such a thing, I had chosen to
ignore it.
"Now," said my companion cheerfully, "we'll telegraph her."
At a telegraph office he seized the pencil and wrote the following
message:
_Will call for you to-night after performance._
To this he signed his own name.
"What about me?" I suggested, after glancing over his shoulder at the
message.
"Oh, well," said he, "there's no use in going into all that in a
telegram. It's sufficient to let her know that one of us is coming."
"But I proposed this party."
"Well," he gave in, with an air of pained patience, "what shall I say,
then? Shall I add that you are unavoidably detained?"
"Not by a jugful!" I returned. "Add that I hope to get there too, and
will make every effort to do so."
He wrote it out, sighing as he did so.
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