Content
[203]
Through the resonant cave of the terminal, a perfunctory voice boomed out something about Jacksonville, points north, and New York. The crowd at the rail seethed. At the rear, Mr. Peter Warne hoisted the battered weight of his carryall, resolutely declining a porter’s aid. Too bad he hadn’t come earlier; he’d have drawn a better seat. Asperities of travel, however, meant little to his seasoned endurance.
Moreover, he was inwardly fortified by what the advertisement vaunted as “The Best Fifteen-cent Dinner in Miami; Wholesome, Clean and Plentiful.” The sign knew. Appetite sated, ticket paid for, a safe if small surplus in a secure pocket; on the whole, he was content with life.
Behind him stood and, if truth must be told, shoved, a restive girl. Like him she carried her own luggage, a dressing case, small and costly. Like him she had paid for her ticket to New York. Her surplus, however, was a fat roll of high-caste bills. Her dinner at the ornate Seafoam Club had cost somebody not less than ten dollars. But care sat upon her somber brow, and her expression was a warning to all and sundry to keep their distance. She was far from being content with life.
All chairs had been filled when Peter Warne threaded the aisle, having previously tossed his burden into an overhead bracket. Only the rear bench, stretching the full width of the car, offered any space. Three passengers had already settled into it; there was accommodation for two more, but the space was piled full of baled newspapers.
“Hi!” said the late arrival cheerfully to the uniformed driver, who stood below on the pavement looking bored. “I’d like one of these seats.”
The driver turned a vacant gaze upon him and turned away again.
“Have this stuff moved, won’t you?” requested the passenger, with unimpaired good humor.
The official offered a fair and impartial view of a gray-clad back.
Mr. Warne reflected. “If you want a thing well done, do it yourself,” he decided. Still amiable, he opened the window and tossed out four bundles in brisk succession.
Upon this, the occupant of the uniform evinced interest. “Hey! What d’you think you’re doin’?” He approached, only to stagger back under the impact of another bale which bounded from his shoulder. With a grunt of rage, he ran around to the rear door, yanked it open and pushed his way in, his face red and threatening.
[204]
Having, meantime, disposed of the remainder of the papers, Mr. Warne turned, thrust his hand into his rear pocket, and waited. The driver also waited, lowering but uncertain. Out popped the hand, grasping nothing more deadly than a notebook.
“Well, come ahead,” said its owner.