The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 43: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

GETTING AWAY FROM THOMPSON. that was mattress, sheet and everything else; side by side and silently they dropped to their knees and stretched their weary bodies. Some beds, like some meals, are beyond mere spoken comment; this was one of them. Mrs. Hapworthy waited significantly for Jane to follow and the hostess bent her head mutely and entered, intuition prompting her to select the outer edge of the blanket as the best spot from which to make a pos- sible escape. Without dignity and with scant comfort they laid themselves down side by side, blew out the light and drew up ' the odd blanket. It covered the central pair quite nicely, but it left a breezy spot on one side of Jane Fayre. She strove to draw the covering closer and earned a sharp word from Aunt Hettie, who was struggling with the farther edge. She drew her warm coat tighter and even found herself smiling at the situation. As a pleasure trip, this one lacked many essential elements, but at least it was serv- ing its original purpose. If Thompson were behind—and he must be close behind now —he would pass this particular spot a dozen times in the darkness without even knowing of its existence. A machine roared out, down the road, af- ter a bit, and Jane’s heart paused; but it roared on past them and she breathed again as the sound died away in the distance. The tremendous stillness of the forest soothed her, too; it was just lulling her to slumber when Mrs. Hapworthy spoke: - “Miss Fayre!” 7 on P77 “You will pardon me, I know,” the lady said steadily, ‘‘but I am a woman who be- lieves in the utmost candor.” “What?” said Jane, waking entirely. “About James,” said James’s_ wife. “Mind, I don’t say that you were flirting with him at supper-time.” “T wasn’t!” her hostess gasped. ‘““Why—’ “Very well, then, you were not!” said Mrs. Hapworthy. ‘But what I want to say, in just so many words, is this: don’t !’’ “Why, I—I—” Jane stammered, and in the darkness she felt a burning flush of mortification. “Very well, Miss Fayre. Very well!” the lady repeated sweetly. “I often find it bet- ter to nip these things in the bud. That is all. You do understand?” 3 -A ) 225 “No, I do not,” Jane faltered. Aunt Hettie rose on one elbow, causing a chilly wave to surge between the blankets. “Don’t try to,” she advised harshly. ‘Mrs. Hapworthy, is it possible that you’re jealous of that simpering creature?” “Not at all!” said the wife of the fasci- nating James and laughed nastily. “Heaven defend us!” Aunt Hettie ex- claimed. “I should think that if any woman was fool enough to take him off your hands, you’d—”’ This time it was Mrs. Hapworthy who rose, causing another cool wave to pass over them. “Oh, do you think so?” she asked, force- fully. ‘Do you really think that? Well, let me tell you—” “Oh, please!” Jane cried. ‘‘Please!”’ “T shall—shall not lower myself to an- swer!’”? Mrs. Hapworthy stated, sinking back. For a time, when silence had dropped with a heavy thud upon the little tent, the very air vibrated her emotion; but when one has spent the day covering the best part of three hundred miles in a car, emo- tions have less than their normal vitality. Jane, to be sure, put in a sad ten minutes of agonized waiting for the next eruption, ‘but it failed to come. Rigid as a statue and quite as motionless, Mrs. Hapworthy lay be- side her—and after a time Jane’s heavy lids began to droop again. Mercifully, she was floating away from it all—from Thompson and _ her ill-starred party and everything else. She was float- ing up into a beautiful, brilliant, peaceful region and the only person present beside herself seemed to be Mr. Farnham. He was smiling cheerily as usual and very busy doing something useful, although she could not see just what. She was drawing nearer, when: ‘‘Jane!”’ came suddenly and thinly to her ear. Jane stirred drowsily. ‘Jane, dear!” the voice said sharply. “Ts that you, Mary?” Jane asked, as her eyes came open again. “Yes, dear,” said the cook of the party. ‘Jane, dear, did you eat vour beans?” ‘“Why—lI think so.” “All of them?” “T—J’m not sure,” said Mary’s hostess. The cook sighed loudly. “Truly, Jane,” her wistful tone pursued, “weren’t they nice?” CORMMICLOOOKS (C@