CHAPTER X
THE MEETING
"Mister Graves!"
The voice was a woman's, low, musical, and irate; and Tom turned quickly.
It was the afternoon of the first day out. For the first time in his life Tom was away from his native, Northwestern heath and confronted by a scene that was not framed by lanky pine and frayed, ribbed rock, by rolling sage land and green-thundering waterfall, studded with little towns set flat, like jewels, into the surrounding plains and straddling in an arrogant, devil-may-care manner in all the cardinal points of the compass, as if to advertise to newcomers fresh from the East that, if they would but wait a year or two, the town would fill up and grow to the next range, and even beyond.
For the first time in his life Tom felt the lap and surge of salt water beneath his feet and so he had been leaning over the top deck rail looking over the great Atlantic that chopped towards the crooked, peaked sky line with an immense roll; and, the ship giving a ruffianly lurch at the same moment, he nearly lost his balance and fell on the plank deck when he recognized the speaker's face.
"Well! Bertha! I'll be eternally razzle-dazzled!"
He held out a big, honest hand to Miss Wedekind, who stood there, dressed in short plaid skirt, low-heeled brown shoes, tweed hat, and a silk blazer of gold and black stripes.
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