Page:The Popular Magazine v72 n1 (1924-04-20).djvu/157

 V. time-table, and pointed to the positively underscored express. “I'm not going to New Orleans. We catch this train. Out of Vicksburg. To-morrow night.”

As a party leader, accustomed to give orders, Senator Rutherford was not keen on taking such dictation. But that was the only way to get along with Miss Jessica Faison, who had the sweetest possible disposition provided she was allowed to do precisely as she pleased. Which Jessica invariably did, whether she were allowed or no. So the senator agreed. It seemed manifestly for the good of his party that he should make fair weather with old Joshua K. Faison, and kill two birds with one stone by placing Long Grim under personal obligations—two patriotic paymasters who were relied upon to finance the Rutherford presidential boom. Being a friend of both families he knew all about young Furlong's engagement to Jessica, and how everybody hated to see the lad buried in the mud of a Mississippi levee, when he should be playing his proper rôle in New York as son to the famous financier. Consequently Rutherford saw his opportunity when the River Commission invited these congressmen to inspect their levees during the high water. The commission needed appropriations for flood control; the possibility needed financial backing for his boom; their hands played well together, and Jessica had jumped at the idea of bringing Furlong home.

To make sure that their prodigal would return like a most obedient lamb, Rutherford had brought a letter of recall bearing Long Grim's potent autograph, together with an order from the war department accepting the resignation of Assistant Engineer Grimshaw, to take effect at once. The Rutherford credentials were horse high, bull strong and pig tight.

If her kidnaping could have been accomplished in a whirl, like motoring up to Tarrytown and restoring Furlong to his normal habitat, Jessica would have dashingly carried off the coup. But she had not reckoned upon these interminable stretches of the Mississippi. Why did the devil build this river so long, when all the other bridesmaids were having such a thrilling time with their dresses? Being penned up with these politicians fatigued her. They couldn't talk about the Duke of Druidsholm, but gabbled of levees and revetments and appropriations; or huddled at a table with their heads over a map, while Colonel Clancy, president of the commission, demonstrated just how these tiresome overflows might be prevented. Why make so much fuss about a little water? When these people got wet, why couldn't they run up to New York and really see something? It might civilize them. Anyway, Jessica got bored at the levee talk that went on endlessly, endlessly.

“Senator,” she dismissed him with a weary smile, “you don't have to amuse me. I'll sit here and read, or watch the river.”

In spite of herself there was something about this river that held her, a power, a Majesty, a mystery that kept Jessica wondering what new vistas might unfold when their boat rounded the next bend. Unconsciously she caught what desert dwellers call “the horizon fever,” the craving desire to see what lies beyond the next ridge.

So for two hours she sat quiet. Then it jarred upon her when the congressional committee poured themselves through the doorway and Colonel Clancy announced:

“All ashore at Boggy Bayou! Now, Miss Faison, I'll show you a bully bit of levee construction.”

“How exciting.” Jess never blinked a lash to betray more than a polite attention.

“We tie up here for two hours,” the colonel added.

“Two hours?” Jessica whispered to Rutherford. “Will that give us time to get Furlong?”

“Plenty. Any fool should be glad to escape from this hole in two minutes.”

Boggy Bayou! This was the paradise from which no allurement could drag her fiancé! Boggy Bayou! With a glance Miss Faison dismissed its dreary shores. Under a slow bell their pilot was steering straight into a forest that grew on what appeared to be solid ground. The boat did not stop, and every passenger gasped as it went crashing among the treetops, to go plunging through a thicket of overflowed willows. Beyond the willow thicket they emerged into an open basin and tied up against a broken levee. This was the same old levee that Grimshaw had cut, its point, the apex of the A, having now caved into the river, while swirling waters beat against the new line.

At last! Here she was! The self-contained Miss Faison tingled with anticipation and ran down to the lower deck. She would be first to spring ashore and give Furlong