"Oh, I forgot
you couldn't read that." He tilted his head back toward the instrument.
"A wire just went through--the court-house at Garbin caught fire in the
basement--something about the furnace, they think--and she's going up in
smoke. Hydrants are froze up so they can't get water on it. That fixes
your looking up the record, Ford."
Ford stared hard at him. "Well, I might hunt up the preacher and ask
him," he said, his tone dropping again to dull discouragement.
The agent chuckled. "From all I hear," he observed rashly, "you've made
that same preacher mighty hard to catch!"
Ford drummed upon the shelf and scowled at the smoke-blackened window,
beyond which the snow was sweeping aslant. Upon his own side of the
ticket window, the agent pared his nails with his pocket-knife and
watched him furtively.
"Oh, hell! What do I care, anyway?" Revulsion seized Ford harshly. "I
guess I can stand it if she can. She came here and married me--it isn't
my funeral any more than it is hers. If she wants to be so darned
mysterious about it, she can go plumb--to--New York!" There were a few
decent traits in Ford Campbell; one was his respect for women, a respect
which would not permit him to swear about this wife of his, however
exasperating her behavior.
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