Читать книгу Tom Slade at Shadow Isle - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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“Now I feel normal,” Brent said, as he stretched his legs out the full length of their Pullman section.

“And I feel uncomfortable,” Tom said. “I’d like at least a quarter of the seat to sit on. What do you think I am, a fly?”

“Pardon the oversight, Tommy boy,” Brent drawled. He hugged his long legs closer to the window. “I do love comfort.”

“As if that’s news to my young ears,” Tom laughed. “Were you ever exhausted from working too hard, Brent?”

“No,” Brent admitted solemnly. “I’ve kept all my surplus effort in reserve. Stored it away, so to speak, for some momentous occasion.”

“When will that be?” Tom queried.

“Perhaps at Shadow Isle,” answered Brent. “Who knows! Maybe old boy Pearson will set me to work sweeping the ocean off the rocks every morning.”

The train started off for Boston and Brent and Tom lapsed into the silence that seems so usual at the beginning of a journey. Tom’s head drooped after a little while and Brent’s right leg rudely slipped off its resting place on the opposite cushion. He made no effort to restore it to its former position. He seemed not to have a care in the world.

An hour passed by in this manner when Brent was startled out of his lethargy by the train’s coming to a stop. Sleepily he raised a heavy eyelid nearest the aisle only to find a man in the next forward section staring curiously at him.

Brent roused himself and sat up straight. The man, evidently embarrassed, quickly turned and reached for his straw hat hanging on the upper hook. He placed it on his head and strode out toward the smoking room.

Astonished, Brent watched him. Then he shook Tom roughly and woke him out of a nice, peaceful nap. “Hey, Tomasso,” he said, “there’s something suspicious about that bird.”

“What bird?” Tom asked drowsily, trying to pull himself together.

“The fellow that came under my heels in the station,” answered Brent.

“Gosh,” Tom said with a sigh, “are you still thinking about him?”

“Certainly,” said Brent. “Why wouldn’t I? He has the next section to ours and I woke up to find him still staring at me. Why wouldn’t I think about him? He hasn’t given me a chance to think about anything else.”

“I told you a couple of hours ago,” Tom said, “that maybe you interest him. Anyway, he has as much right to be riding on this train as you or I. So where’s the kick?”

“None,” drawled Brent, “as long as he keeps his eyes to himself. It makes me feel like a flapper.”

“If I were you, I’d go and question him,” Tom suggested. “He might tell you a different way to knot your necktie.”

“Not a bad suggestion, Tommy,” said Brent. “I’ll act upon it at once.” He rose lazily out of the seat and strolled in the direction of the smoking room. Tom snuggled back into his unfinished slumber.

Brent entered the smoke filled room. A number of men were lolling about on the black leather seats, their knees and shoes flecked with cigar ashes, and the man he had come in to see was sitting on the divan at the end nearest the window.

He seemed not to be taking any part in the conversation; rather he seemed quite out of it, for he kept his face averted, looking out at the passing scenes.

There was the usual smoking room talk and, bored, Brent walked to the wash basin, took up the cake of soap and indifferently rubbed it on his palms. Meanwhile he glanced through the haze at the buzzing group.

Suddenly a bald-headed man removed a cigar from his mouth with a flourish. “I’ll leave it to that young man washing his hands there, if it ain’t so,” he said.

Brent stopped and looked at the man inquiringly. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Did you speak to me?”

The bald one threw his stub to one side and looked up at Brent. “I was just trying to tell this thick article here that Bangor’s the capital of Maine. And I just happened to see you standing there and wanted you to back me up on it. I leave it to you, young man. Now ain’t Bangor the capital?”

“Not since I went to school,” Brent drawled. “Augusta’s the capital. I could always remember it because a fellow in my class named Gus came from there.”

They all laughed, all except the man at the window. He had not yet turned his face. Brent wondered why he hadn’t turned and stared then.

The bald one jarred him out of his thoughts. “Hey, young fella,” he said, “how about it? You seem to know your little geography of Maine. Do you know a good up-and-comin’ fishin’ village where we could get good accommodations?”

Brent shook his head. “Sorry,” he drawled, “but I don’t. The only fishing village I know of is the one I’m bound for and I know nothing of it except that its name is Rhodes.”

“Humph!” the bald one said. “What accommodations you gettin’ there?”

“None,” Brent answered. “I go further on to a lighthouse about a half-mile from the mainland, I believe.”

The man at the window turned quickly, glanced at Brent a second, then averted his face again. It really didn’t signify anything—that look. It was just a curious glance. Yet somehow it left in Brent a rather dissatisfied feeling. He wished the fellow had said something.

He hung around for a few minutes more until the talk switched to reminiscences. He decided that was his cue to move on. Staring people annoyed him but reminiscences were worse.

He found Tom quite wide awake and expectant looking. “Well, is everything O.K. now?” he asked Brent.

“I know less than I did before,” Brent admitted, trying to infuse sadness into his tones.

“Didn’t he talk to you at all?” Tom queried.

“No,” Brent answered. “I’m beginning to think he just doesn’t care about my looks. Or it might be as you say, Tommy, he doesn’t like the way I knot my tie.”