Harshaw. Where _the_ Mr. Harshaw is, _quien sabe_! It's awfully late.
Poor Kitty has gone to bed, and has cried herself to sleep, I dare say, if
sleep she can. I never have heard of a girl being treated so.
Tom and the other Mr. Harshaw are smoking in the dining-room, and Tom is
talking endlessly--what about I can't imagine, unless he is giving this
young record-breaker his opinion of his extraordinary conduct. But I must
begin at the beginning.
Mrs. Percifer wired us from New York the day the bride-elect started, and
_she_ was to wire us from Ogden, which she did. I went to the train to meet
her, and I told Tom to be on the watch for the bridegroom, who would come
in from his ranch on the Snake River, by wagon or on horseback, across
country from Ten Mile. To come by rail he'd have had to go round a hundred
miles or so, by Mountain Home. An American would have done it, of course,
and have come in with her on the train; but the Percifers plainly expected
no such wild burst of enthusiasm from him.
The train was late. I walked and walked the platform; some of the people
who were waiting went away, but I dared not leave my post.
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