with the residue of tobacco juice, and coated with the ashes that often floated in through the windows. The outsides of the carriages gave no hint as to the state of the floors; the carriages were kept as clean as possible given the circumstances. Try as she might to keep her hem free of the floor, it dragged whenever she sat, or when the carriage lurched as she walked, and she was forced to drop her skirt and clutch at the backs of the seats for balance. She did not think that she was ever going to get the skirt clean again, and she only hoped she could prevail on some hardy soul in Mr. Cameron's employ to clean her boots, for she was nauseated by the notion of having to touch them, sticky and odorous as they were.
She had observed the travelers in the parlor cars and the occasional private carriage with raw envy. The hard wooden bench-seats of the common carriage were too short to lie down upon, and if one could sleep, one woke with a stiff neck and a headache from being wedged into an unnatural, upright position. The most comfortable naps she had taken had been in stations, on the benches reserved for waiting passengers, as she also waited for the next train, guarded by the watchful eye of the curiously paternal stationmasters.
At least she had not starved, although she had expected to spend at least part of the time hungry. Her meals were, indeed, taken care of, and she ate as well as anyone else taking the common carriages. Those same stationmasters saw to it that when there was no dining car attached to a train she was provided with a packet of thick ham or cured-tongue sandwiches and a bottle or two of lemonade. This, evidently, was on the orders of Mr. Cameron, since she saw no one else being so provided for, and occasionally her preferential treatment aroused glances of envy akin to those she bestowed on the wealthier travelers.
There had been sights she would never forget: the fury of a prairie thunderstorm, as lightning formed a thousand spidery legs of fire beneath the heavy, black clouds; the brilliant skies at night, with more stars than she had ever seen in her life; the mountains-every day held its share of natural wonders, more astounding than any of the seven wonders of the ancient world. If she had not been so exhausted, she probably would have been able to appreciate them more.
She had been looking forward to her first sight of the Pacific Ocean, but with this boor trying to catch her attention she was unlikely to be able to appreciate this particular vista.
At least she never tired of this book, The Odyssey in the original Greek. The advantage of having the original before her was that she need not be confined to one particular translator's view of things; she was able to discover nuances and new interpretations every time she read it. It never mattered that she was tired, that the long stretches across the empty plains had seemed interminable. Even with the eyes of another upon her, she was able to reach beyond this journey, to a strange and wondrous journey of a different sort, infinitely more perilous than her own, fraught with the machinations of gods and terrible magic's, with-
'Well, excuse me, missy!'
The boor, seeing himself spurned in favor of a mere book, had elected to take things a step further and try to gain her attention directly. She pointedly ignored him, turning away a trifle, although that cast the pages of the book in shadow. Surely he won't persist if I make it clear I want nothing of him.
Undeterred, he persisted. When he got no response from his verbal attempts, actually poking her foot with his toe so that she looked up at him in shock and affrontery before she could stop herself.
'Well, there, missy,' the rude fellow said, in a falsely hearty voice. 'You sure have been buryin' your nose in that book! What's it you're readin' that's so interestin'?'
She stared at him, appalled by his impoliteness, then replied before she could stop herself, 'Homer's Odyssey.
He wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. Evidently his sole exposure to literature had consisted of what lay between the covers of the McGuffy's Readers. 'Homer who? Say, missy, that's all Greek to me.'
'Precisely,' she replied, lowering the temperature of her words as her temper heated, and she turned her attention back to the book. He's been snubbed, surely he won't persist any further.
Only to have the book snatched out of her hands.
Her temper snapped. Outraged, she jumped to her feet while the lout was still puzzling over the Greek letters.
How dare he!
'Conductor!' she shouted at the top of her lungs, and in her most piercing voice.
The lout looked up at her, startled in his turn by her anger and her willingness to stand up to his rudeness. The conductor, who fortunately happened to be at the other end of her car collecting tickets, hurried up the aisle, walking as easily in the swaying car as a sailor would on a swaying deck. Before he could even voice an inquiry, she pointed at the miscreant with an accusatory finger, her face flushed with anger.
'That man is a thief and a masher!' she said indignantly. 'He has been bothering me, he would not leave me alone, and now he has stolen my book! Do something about him!'
But the cad was not without a quick wit-probably a necessity when confronted with angry husbands , fiances and fathers. 'I don't know what that woman's talking about,' he protested, lying so outrageously that her mouth fell open in sheer amazement at his audacity. 'I was just sittin' here readin' my book, when she jumps up and screeches for you.'
