Elmer ranged up beside his musical friend, Art Nichols, and as they humped up the steps of a day-coach he muttered, "Art! Art! Got your stomach-medicine here!"
"Great!"
"Say. Look. Fix it so you sit with Sharon. Then pretty soon go out for a smoke—"
"She don't like smoking."
"You don't need to tell her what for! Go out so I can sit down and talk to her for a while. Important business. About—a dandy new town for her evangelistic labors. Here: stick this in your pocket. And I'll dig up s'more for you at Lincoln. Now hustle and get in with her."
"Well, I'll try."
So, in the dark malodorous car, hot with late spring, filled with women whose corsets creaked to their doleful breathing, with farmers who snored in shirt-sleeves, Elmer stood behind the seat in which a blur marked the shoulders of Art Nichols and a radiance showed the white presence of Sharon Falconer. To Elmer she seemed to kindle the universe. She was so precious, every inch of her; he had not known that a human being could be precious like this and magical. To be near her was ecstasy enough . . . almost enough.
She was silent. He heard only Art Nichols' twanging, "What do you think about us using some of these nigger songs—hand 'em a jolt?" and her drowsy, "Oh, let's not talk about it tonight." Presently, from Art, "Guess I'll skip out on the platform and get a breath of air," and the sacred haunt beside her was free to the exalted Elmer.
He slipped in, very nervous.
She was slumped low in the seat, but she sat up, peered at him in the dimness, and said, with a grave courtesy which shut him out more than any rudeness, "I'm so sorry, but this place is taken."
"Yes, I know, Sister Falconer. But the car's crowded, and I'll just sit down and rest myself while Brother Nichols is away—that is, if you'll let me. Don't know if you remember me. I'm— I met you at the tent in Sautersville. Reverend Gantry."
"Oh," indifferently. Then, quickly: "Oh, yes, you're the Presbyterian preacher who was fired for drinking."
"That's absolutely—!" He saw that she was watching
