"Wait!" Guthrie called out as the train picked up speed. He gestured toward the conductor's assistant standing just outside the caboose.
The fellow leaned back against the door with his arms crossed and chuckled, watching the two Englishmen run after the train.
"Englishters," he muttered, chewing a sizeable wad of tobacco that deformed his left cheek. "Dumb, stupid Englishters."
"I-I say, please stop!" Clarence hollered, ignorant of the fact that once in motion, trains seldom stop for anyone. He stumbled along the tracks and nearly fell as his luggage threw him off balance.
The American chuckled and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice through the air. Clarence cried out in disgust as the stuff slopped across the rails in front of him.
"What was that?"
"'Bacco juice, Englishter! Want some more?" He spewed another arc, and it shot straight at Clarence, slapping against his forehead and oozing down into his eyes, causing him to nearly freeze up with overwhelming revulsion.
"Keep running, sir!" Guthrie reached the caboose railing and grasped at it.
The American gave a snort of disgust and entered the caboose, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving the two Englishmen with the sound of its bolt sliding into place.
"Oh blast it all, Guthrie!" Clarence shouted, more than a few yards behind his butler. The locomotive was gaining momentum while he lost speed with every stride. "We'll never make it, old boy. And we're locked out, besides!"
Guthrie made no reply. He was just inches away from grabbing hold of the railing, and his eyes were set with determination. "We shall not fail, Master Clarence."
There had never been a middle ground for Guthrie; there was only success or failure. Once his mind was set, there could be no swaying him from his course. Clarence had always admired him for it. But not now.
"Give up, old chap. It's impossible!"
Guthrie's fingertips touched the iron railing. His fingers slowly curled around the bar. He swung his luggage up, and it landed on the caboose platform with a resounding thud. Then he gripped the bar tightly, his legs somehow keeping pace with the train. He took a quick breath, and then he pulled himself upward and lunged forward at the same moment, diving over the railing and hitting the platform with a short groan.
Clarence could not believe his eyes. He'd never seen anything like it—from the old butler or anyone else, for that matter. How could a man Guthrie's age do such a thing?
"Master Clarence, toss me your baggage!"
The old butler stood disheveled but otherwise none the worse for wear, stretching out both arms to catch Clarence's bags.
"Guthrie, you're a wonder!" Clarence heaved his luggage upward, one parcel at a time, and Guthrie caught them and set them down at his feet.
The train whistle shrilled. Smoke billowed into the sky as the locomotive accelerated.
Clarence ran as fast as he could. Although free from the weight of his baggage, he still didn't seem to be gaining any ground on the caboose. He gasped for breath and gritted his teeth, chugging like a locomotive himself, putting every last ounce of strength into his legs. And yet, despite his great effort, it was in vain. He could not catch the train. It was not in the realm of possibility. A more logical choice presented itself: give into his burning muscles and collapse right then and there.
"You must hurry, Master Clarence," Guthrie urged, his hand held out as far as it could reach. "You must run faster, sir."
Under normal circumstances, Clarence might have cursed the old butler for stating the obvious. And he probably would have, had only his throat not been so dry, or if his tongue had not been cleaving to the roof of his mouth, or if his lungs had not felt as though they would burst at any moment—all new experiences for him, occupying much of his attention at the moment.
Why am I doing this? His consciousness drifted away, seeming to float above the situation as a spectator. I hate it here already. These Yanks are either drunk or spitting at me. I never should have left home!
But then the words he'd written to his mother returned to his mind: "I want to do something..."
And they gave him a change in attitude, if not of heart.
Well, I'm doing something now, that's for certain. And I suppose I'd rather be here running after this blasted train than lolling about at home, wasting my days on—
"Give me your hand, sir!"
Guthrie's voice shattered his thoughts. He stared through bleary eyes to find himself within reach of the caboose. He had no idea how he'd gotten so close.
"Your hand, sir!" Guthrie leaned over the railing with both arms extended.
As if in a dream, Clarence reached upward with a sluggish arm seemingly detached from his shoulder, moving incredibly slow and weighing so very much.
"Up you go," Guthrie grunted, clasping his master's hand and forearm in a vice-like grip. A moment later, Clarence found himself hoisted up into the air and onto the caboose platform, clearing the railing and slamming against the door, throwing it wide open in spite of the lock.
Guthrie could only stare at what he'd done.
"Forgive me..." He knelt at his young master's side. "Sir?" He checked Clarence's jugular vein for a pulse. "Are you all right?"
Chapter 8
Of course, Clarence was all right, and in a little while—after their luggage had been stowed by a more courteous member of the train staff, and after Clarence had come to himself, and after they had been given a chance to clean up a bit—they located their assigned seats in the passenger car and sipped the tea they were served. The landscape outside passed by their window quickly, but one stretching mile of verdant fields tends to look much like the next, so they were not disappointed by their fleeting view.
The subtle rocking and continuous rhythm from the tracks below soon lulled a few of their fellow passengers to sleep. Those yet to succumb to slumber filled the car with a low murmur of conversation, the soft tinkling of saucers, tea cups, and silverware, and the thick haze of tobacco smoke. Clarence found his thoughts settling in the relaxed atmosphere, once again glad that he'd joined Guthrie's Safari to America.
"You know, old boy," he said, gazing past his own reflection in the window at the lush scenery beyond. "I have never known what it's like to travel abroad. I've never experienced anything like—" He tipped his head toward all that lay beyond the pane. "—this. Perhaps it was due to Father's travels, and his untimely death. Mother wanted to keep me safe from harm, I suppose. She kept me on a short leash, that's for certain." He took a sip of the tea and winced slightly. "Oh I say, these Yanks don't know the first thing about making a proper cup of tea."
"Quite so, I'm afraid, sir," Guthrie replied. But he drank it anyway.
"Well, I can't stand another drop." Clarence set down the cup and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. He eyed Guthrie for a moment before he said, "All right, old chap. Enough is enough. Out with it now."
The butler looked up with a frown of bewilderment. "Sir?"
Clarence released an impatient sigh. "You've been a bit out of character lately, old boy. You decide at the drop of a hat to come to America, and then we spend barely a second in Boston before we're chasing a train out of the station." He shook his head with a half-smile of incredulity at their recent escapade. "You haven't told me where we're going, nor why we are going wherever it is. Yes, I know why I'm here—to get as far away as possible from that blasted life back home—but why would you come all the way across the pond to—"
"Tickets," growled a sudden voice from the aisle.
"You!" Clarence yelped.
It was he: the brawny tobacco-chewing (and spitting) fellow whom they had met earlier. He stood to his fullest height in his official navy blue uniform, brass buttons strained almost to the breaking point across his protruding midsection. His matching hat topped a mass of greasy, disheveled hair. Holding out a fleshy palm, he—
"Oh, now there's a good chap," Clarence said brightly, taking the man's hand and shaking it. "Forgive and forget, eh? Of c
ourse! Never one to hold grudges, I am more than willing to put that unfortunate incident far behind us, assuming—"
"Shut up and gimme yer ticket, you stupid Englishter!" he roared, pulling free of Clarence's grasp and cursing him foully.
Aghast, Clarence cringed in his seat.
"Here you are," Guthrie said, as calm as if nothing were amiss. He handed over their tickets.
The big fellow scowled down at Clarence (doing his best to avoid eye contact) before he snatched the tickets and read them slowly. A hint of surprise crossed the man's lumpy, sunburned face. Then he narrowed his bloodshot eyes at Guthrie. "You goin' all the way, huh?"
"Yes." The old butler met his gaze. "Is there anything wrong with that?"
"Heh," he grunted, "only if you call gettin' scalped by Injuns something wrong!"
"Wha-haa?" Clarence gasped, wide-eyed.
"What kinda noise was that?" The big man turned on Clarence with a gruesome sneer. "You know what? I think you could use some toughening up, Englishter!" He pounded his meaty fist into the palm of his hand and chuckled with more than a hint of malice.
Clarence cowered in his seat with his eyes bulging and teeth suddenly chattering.
"Now see here." Guthrie stood with a stern scowl. "You have spit at us, verbally abused us, and now you threaten us with bodily harm." He stepped up to the big man, meeting him nose to nose. Silence held the passenger car, and Guthrie seemed oblivious to the fact that the American's girth was twice his own. "I warn you," Guthrie said. "Leave us alone."
The fellow looked amused in a deranged sort of way. He glared into the unwavering eyes of the English butler and clenched white-knuckled fists down at his sides. "And what do you think you're gonna do iffin I don't, old man?"
Every eye in the coach darted to Guthrie as he said quietly, "I would not ask, if I were you."
An unsettled murmur ran through the passengers, and the big fellow's eyes and ears and face burned scarlet with rage, his nostrils flaring like a bull's. "Oh yeah?" He jabbed Guthrie in the chest. Any other man would have rocked back on his heels from the impact, but Guthrie barely budged. This seemed to infuriate the fellow even further. "Well, I'm askin'!" he roared.
Guthrie remained calm. "In that case, I might do something like this—"
In a blur of speed, Guthrie drew back his arm at waist level and drove his palm upward into the large man's diaphragm. The American groaned and doubled over, staggering backward as the air went out of him. Wide-eyed, he looked as if he'd never been so surprised in all his life. Then he collapsed to his knees in the aisle and fell facedown with a wheeze, instantly unconscious.
The passengers enthusiastically applauded Guthrie's efforts as he took his seat. Clarence could only stare, eventually finding his voice after the uproar of approval had subsided.
"I say, old boy, how in the world did you manage that?"
Guthrie paused. "Martial arts, sir. From the Orient." He returned to his tea.
"My word." Clarence swallowed, blinking and remembering to breathe. "I say...there is much about you I don't know!"
"That is true, sir." Guthrie gazed out the window at the swiftly passing countryside. "Quite true, I'm afraid."
Chapter 9
As the sun descended, dissolving in a brilliant rusty glow on the horizon, and as the shadows outside lengthened and grew darker, Clarence pulled out his father's journal from his valise. He glanced at Guthrie, dozing beside him; then he turned through the sturdy pages until arriving at the section labeled America. He paused for a moment, pondering the extraordinary events of the day, and then he brought down his pen with broad strokes scratching from left to right, line after line...
…at which point Guthrie made a courageous move against the American beast. With unimaginable speed, he brought back his forearm at waist level in the fighting style of the Marital Arts—
Clarence frowned at that, glancing again at Guthrie. "Is that what he called them?" He shrugged and returned to the journal entry.
—and drove his palm into the belly of the beast with such force that the ogre staggered backward and fell to the floor, out cold. It was an amazing sight to behold: as though Guthrie's arm had become a rod of iron at that moment. It was a strength I have never seen before. Fantastic, simply fantastic.
The beast was escorted away by the staff just as he began to regain consciousness. Then we ate a light meal served by the cook—a Frenchman, I believe, by the smell of him—and now many of my fellow passengers are drifting off to sleep as the sun dips below the western edge of the world.
He liked that last turn of phrase enough to read it again to himself. "As the sun dips below the western edge of the world." He grinned with approval. "Quite so."
Thus ends my first day in America. It has been an unforgettable one, to be sure. I hope to experience many more like it during my sojourn here—but perhaps without being spat upon. Although I still do not know where we are headed, I am certain I shall find out soon. I trust my butler, and, so far, he has been an invaluable guide on this adventure. Perhaps I shall grow to know him better as we travel together on this journey across the American wilderness.
With a contented sigh, Clarence closed the leather-bound journal and slipped it back into his valise. Yawning, he closed his eyes, and almost immediately he fell asleep.
The next morning, the passengers awoke from their slumber to find early rays of warm sunlight streaking into their car. After stretching, yawning, and discussing who should use the lavatory first, they were served breakfast by the cook and his assistants, each clad in stark white uniforms and pillowy hats.
"Oh, my word!" Clarence objected to what he found on the plate set before him. "What on earth are these horrid things?"
"Flapjacks, I believe," said Guthrie.
"They look like flattened horse dung!"
Not at all flattered by Clarence's observation, the cook scowled horribly. Raising his rigid chin, he snapped in a thick, choppy accent, "You not want? Fine!" Violently, he shoved open the nearest window and tossed Clarence's meal outside. "You not eat!"
A bit taken aback, Clarence glanced out the window, trying to spot his breakfast. But it had already been left far behind the moving train. He looked up at the glowering cook and made an attempt at appeasement. "Bonjour-uh, comment allez-vous?"
The cook glared with contempt, arms crossed.
"Merci-uh beaucoup—uh-quelle heure est-il?" Clarence frantically tried to remember all the French he had learned over the past term. "Mauvais chose-uh, ouí, ouí, monsieur—rouge, blanc, e bleu!" He had no idea if what he was saying made any sense at all, and now the cook was staring at him in confusion. Unfortunately, Clarence's French vocabulary was fast approaching its limit. "Parlez-vous Francais?" he cried in desperation, his final attempt to speak to the hostile cook in the man's own language.
"You madman!" the cook spat in disgust. "You ugly foreign devil!" With that, he dashed away up the aisle.
Clarence stared after him. "Guthrie, old boy, was my French that bad?"
Guthrie opened his mouth to reply and then shut it, nodding gravely. "But he is not a Frenchman, sir."
"No? Then what in blazes is he?"
"A Chinaman, I believe."
Clarence's eyes widened with excitement. "Really, old boy? A Chinaman?"
"Uh-yes, sir."
"Oh, hurrah! I've never seen a real, live Chinaman before. Oh, I must jot it down in Father's journal!"
He reached into the valise and quickly found where he'd last left off. With great enthusiasm, he drew his pen across the paper, planning to include a detailed sketch of the ill-tempered Chinese cook, just as his father had drawn pictures and maps in other sections of the journal.
"Master Clarence," Guthrie quietly interrupted at length.
"Yes, old boy?" Clarence's gaze remained riveted on his illustration-in-the-making.
Guthrie paused a moment, causing Clarence to look up from his work. "It warms my heart, sir, to see you writing in your father's journal
." He dipped his chin slightly and looked out the window. "He would have liked that...very much."
Clarence couldn't be sure, but he thought he'd seen a tear in Guthrie's eye.
Chapter 10
At this point in the story, it would once again be helpful to visualize a large, accurate map—this time, one of the continental United States. Now as you gaze at this map in your mind's eye, and as the hands of that imaginary clock whirl wildly and the pages of that metaphorical calendar are torn off and cast aside for effect, you will see a thick red line stem from Boston, Massachusetts and head due west. This line of course represents the train carrying Clarence and Guthrie to their destination, and it passes through several states until reaching Columbus, Ohio. Next, it dips down to Frankfort, Kentucky, and heads through St. Louis, Missouri and Wichita, Kansas. By this point, half of the passengers have already disembarked. Yet the train heads ever west, leaving passengers along the way at their various destinations, until finally it reaches Santa Fe in the New Mexico territory—the end of the line...
"What did the conductor mean by the end of the line, old boy?" Clarence frowned curiously, thinking it sounded rather ominous.
"No tracks have been laid past Santa Fe as of yet, sir. Some trouble with the natives, I hear."
"Natives? You mean Indians?" Clarence felt a sudden surge of fear and excitement at the same time. "Half-naked savages of the wilderness?"
"Uh-yes, sir. I believe so."
"Hurrah! I do believe I should like to see some."
Westward, Tally Ho! Page 3