It was a sorry, disgruntled
parade. Everybody wanted a porter at once, and when he could not get
one, berated the road in fiercer terms than ever; men who had always
carried their own bags to escape feeing a porter, now howled and raged
because there was not an army of them on the spot. Everybody was
constantly "damning" the luck.
The conductor led his charges from the track through a muddy stubble-
field and down to a point where half a dozen small rowboats were
waiting among the willows. Dauntless and Eleanor were well up in
front, their faces set resolutely toward Omegon. For some well-defined
reason, Windomshire and Anne were the last in the strange procession.
The medical college agent, the tall and sombre Mr. Hooker, was the
first man into a boat. He said it was a case of life or death.
Eleanor looked backward down the long file of trailers, a little smile
on her lips.
"They are not all going away to be married, are they, Joe?" she said,
taking note of the unbroken array of sour countenances.
"It looks like a funeral, my dear. Look at the cadaverous individual
beside the con--Heavens, Nell, isn't that--by George, it is! It's old
Mrs.
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