If you journey in a Pullman from Mesa to Omaha without a waistcoat,and with a silk handkerchief knotted over the collar of your flannel shirt instead of a tie,wearing,besides,tall,high-heeled boots,a soft,gray hat with a splendid brim,a few people will notice you,but not the majority.New Mexico and Colorado are used to these things.As Iowa,with its immense rolling grain,encompasses you,people will stare a little more,for you're getting near the East,where cow-punchers are not understood.But in those days the line of cleavage came sharp-drawn at Chicago.West of there was still tolerably west,but east of there was east indeed,and the Atlantic Ocean was the next important stopping-place.In Lin's new train,good gloves,patent-leathers,and silence prevailed throughout the sleeping-car,which was for Boston without change.Had not home memories begun impetuously to flood his mind,he would have felt himself conspicuous.Town clothes and conventions had their due value with him.But just now the boy's single-hearted thoughts were far from any surroundings,and he was murmuring to himself,"To-morrow!tomorrow night!"There were ladies in that blue plush car for Boston who looked at Lin for thirty miles at a stretch;and by the time Albany was reached the next day one or two of them commented that he was the most attractive-looking man they had ever seen!Whereas,beyond his tallness,and wide-open,jocular eyes,eyes that seemed those of a not highly conscientious wild animal,there was nothing remarkable about young Lin except stage effect.
The conductor had been annoyed to have such a passenger;but the cow-puncher troubled no one,and was extremely silent.So evidently was he a piece of the true frontier that curious and hopeful fellow-passengers,after watching him with diversion,more than once took a seat next to him.He met their chatty inquiries with monosyllables so few and so unprofitable in their quiet politeness that the passengers soon gave him up.At Springfield he sent a telegram to his brother at the great dry-goods establishment that employed him.
The train began its homestretch after Worcester,and whirled and swung by hills and ponds he began to watch for,and through stations with old wayside names.These flashed on Lin's eye as he sat with his hat off and his forehead against the window,looking:Wellesley.Then,not long after,Riverside.That was the Charles River,and did the picnic woods used to be above the bridge or below?West Newton;Newtonville;Newton.
"Faneuil's next,"he said aloud in the car,as the long-forgotten home-knowledge shone forth in his recollection.The traveller seated near said,"Beg pardon?"but,turning,wondered at the all-unconscious Lin,with his forehead pressed against the glass.The blue water flashed into sight,and soon after they were running in the darkness between high walls;but the cow-puncher never moved,though nothing could be seen.
When the porter announced "Boston,"he started up and followed like a sheep in the general exodus.Down on the platform he moved along with the slow crowd till some one touched him,and,wheeling round,he seized both his brother's hands and swore a good oath of joy.
There they stood--the long,brown fellow with the silk handkerchief knotted over his flannel shirt,greeting tremendously the spruce civilian,who had a rope-colored mustache and bore a fainthearted resemblance to him.The story was plain on its face to the passers-by;and one of the ladies who had come in the car with Lin turned twice,and smiled gently to herself.
But Frank McLean's heart did not warm.He felt that what he had been afraid of was true;and he saw he was being made conspicuous.He saw men and women stare in the station,and he saw them staring as he and his Western brother went through the streets.Lin strode along,sniffing the air of Boston,looking at all things,and making it a stretch for his sleek companion to keep step with him.Frank thought of the refined friends he should have to introduce his brother to;for he had risen with his salary,and now belonged to a small club where the paying-tellers of banks played cards every night,and the head clerk at the Parker House was president.Perhaps he should not have to reveal the cow-puncher to these shining ones.Perhaps the cow-puncher would not stay very long.Of course he was glad to see him again,and he would take him to dine at some obscure place this first evening.But this was not Lin's plan.Frank must dine with him,at the Parker House.Frank demurred,saying it was he that should be host.
"And,"he added,"they charge up high for wines at Parker's."Then for the twentieth time he shifted a sidelong eye over his brother's clothes.
"You're goin'to take your grub with me,"said Lin."That's all right,I guess.And there ain't any 'no'about it.Things is not the same like as if father was livin'--(his voice softened)--and here to see me come home.Now I'm good for several dinners with wines charged up high,Iexpect,nor it ain't nobody in this world,barrin'just Lin McLean,that I've any need to ask for anything.'Mr.McLean,'says I to Lin,'can yu'
spare me some cash?''Why,to be sure,you bet!'And we'll start off with steamed Duxbury clams."The cow-puncher slapped his pocket,where the coin made a muffled chinking.Then he said,gruffly,"I suppose Swampscott's there yet?""Yes,"said Frank."It's a dead little town,is Swampscott.""I guess I'll take a look at the old house tomorrow,"Lin pursued.
"Oh,that's been pulled down since--I forget the year they improved that block."Lin regarded in silence his brother,who was speaking so jauntily of the first and last home they had ever had.
"Seventy-nine is when it was,"continued Frank."So you can save the trouble of travelling away down to Swampscott.""I guess I'll go to the graveyard,anyway,"said the cow-puncher in his offish voice,and looking fixedly in front of him.
