On our return to the cars there was a telegram from the
Postmaster-General awaiting me. After a glance at it, as the rest of
the party looked anxiously on, I passed it over to Miss Cullen, for I
wanted her to have the triumph of reading it aloud to them. It read--
"Hold letters pending arrival of special agent Jackson, due in
Flagstaff October twentieth."
"The election is the eighteenth," Frederic laughed, executing a war
dance on the platform. "The G.S.'s dough is cooked."
"I must waltz with some one," cried Madge, and before I could offer
she took hold of Albert and the two went whirling about, much to my
envy. The Cullens were about the most jubilant road agents I had ever
seen.
After consultation with Mr. Cullen, we had 218 and 97 attached to No.
1 when it arrived, and started for Ash Fork. He wanted to be on the
ground a day in advance, and I could easily be back in Flagstaff
before the arrival of the special agent.
I took dinner in 218, and they toasted me, as if I had done something
heroic instead of merely having sent a telegram. Later four sat down
to poker, while Miss Cullen, Fred and I went out and sat on the
platform of the car while Madge played on her guitar and sang to us.
She had a very sweet voice, and before she had been singing long
we had the crew of a "dust express"--as we jokingly call a gravel
train--standing about, and they were speedily reinforced by many
cowboys, who deserted the medley of cracked pianos or accordions of
the Western saloons to listen to her, and who, not being overcareful
in the terms with which they expressed their approval, finally by
their riotous admiration drove us inside.
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