IV
“Coketown!” droned the , making his way through the slowing car.
Pescud gathered his hat and baggage with the promptness of an old traveller.
“I married her a year ago,” said John. “I told you I built a house in the East End. The belted—I mean the colonel—is there, too. I find him waiting at the gate whenever I get back from a trip to hear any new story I might have picked up on the road.”
I glanced out of the window. Coketown was nothing more than a hillside dotted with a score of black propped up against of and . It rained in , too, and the rills foamed and splashed down through the black mud to the railroad-tracks.
“You won’t sell much plate-glass here, John,” said I. “Why do you get off at this end-o’-the-world?”
“Why,” said Pescud, “the other day I took Jessie for a little trip to Philadelphia, and coming back she thought she saw some in a pot in one of those windows over there just like some she used to raise down in the old Virginia home. So I thought I’d drop off here for the night, and see if I could dig up some of the cuttings or blossoms for her. Here we are. Good night, old man. I gave you the address. Come out and see us when you have time.”
The train moved forward. One of the dotted brown ladies insisted on having windows raised, now that the rain beat against them. The porter came along with his mysterious wand and began to light the car.
I glanced downward and saw the bestseller. I picked it up and set it carefully farther along on the floor of the car, where the raindrops would not fall upon it. And then, suddenly, I smiled, and seemed to see that life has no geographical metes and bounds.
“Good-luck to you, Trevelyan,” I said. “And may you get the petunias for your princess!”