CHAPTER I
ON THE ROAD TO OAK KNOWE
“This way for the Queen!”
“Here you are for the Duke of Connaught! Right this way!”
“Want the Metropole, Miss?”
“Room there, stupid! She’s from the States – any fool could see that! I’m from your hotel, little lady, the American. Your luggage, Miss, allow me?”
If Dorothy’s hands hadn’t been too full, she would have clapped them over her ears, to drown the cries of the hackmen who swarmed about her as she stepped from the train at the railway station in Toronto. As it was, she clung desperately to her bag and shawlstrap, which the man from the American hotel seemed bound to seize, whether or no.
But her heart sank and it was a forlorn little girl, indeed, who looked anxiously around seeking some face on which might be a smile of welcome. But nobody paid any attention to her, except the obstreperous hackmen, and in a sudden fright she let fall the tears she had so bravely kept back until then. It had been a long and lonely journey, but she had been assured that she would be promptly met and cared for when it ended. Now, amid all the throng of travelers and those who awaited them, not one was looking for a “dark haired girl in navy blue” and the tears fell faster as she cried aloud:
“Oh! what shall I do! What shall I do!”
Even the hackmen had forsaken her in pursuit of other, more promising patrons. The short autumn day was at its close and in the growing darkness her fright increased and her usual common sense left her. But, as she spoke, a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a rather gruff voice demanded:
“Why, little stranger, what’s a-troublin’ ye?”
Dorothy winked her tears away and looked up into the face of an old man, whose gray beard swept his breast while his head was entirely bald. He wore a long blue smock, carried an ox-goad in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. He looked as kind as he was homely and Dorothy answered quickly:
“I’m lost, I guess. Or forgotten, and that’s just as bad! I – I – ”
“Lost? Right here in this town? Well, that couldn’t hardly be. Though I own it’s a biggish place. But if you be, I’ll see to it that you get found again, immediate. First start – who be ye?”
“I’m Dorothy Calvert, from Baltimore. I came to the Oak Knowe School for Girls. Somebody was to meet me. Nobody has and – and – I don’t know what to do.”
John Gilpin whistled and exclaimed:
“No! Never! I saw at a glance you was no Cannuck! The little maids we raise in our Province have redder cheeks ’an yours. An’ we don’t let ’em go traversin’ round the universe without their mothers or leastways nurses to look after ’em. But bless my soul, you’ve fell into safe hands. I know old Oak Knowe well. No better school in the whole Empire nor that. Moresomever, there’s been some miscarry betwixt your folks and the Lady Principal or she’d never let you come to this pass. But my road lies same as yours. I’ll just step-an’-fetch my oxen and head ’em straight for home. We’ll get to the School in next to no time. Leastways, betwixt now and bedding-bell – they ring it about half-past nine.”
“Is it so far? Why, it must be hours till then!”
At the cheerful sound of this old teamster’s voice Dorothy forgot her fear. She didn’t stop to reflect that she should have waited quietly in the station till somebody called for her, nor that she might have telephoned to her teachers to announce her arrival. All she realized was that here was a friend in need and that he was a quaintly interesting person.
“’Tis a matter of some miles, lassie, and my old oxen are no electric tram. Slow and sure’s their motto and what’s an hour, more or less, in a little girl’s lifetime? You got a box?”
Dorothy glanced at the rug and magazine, tightly strapped together, and at the handbag she had set down upon the platform and replied:
“No, Mr. – I don’t know your name yet – I haven’t now. I had one, but I ate the lunch out of it and tossed it from the car window.”
The old man stared as if she had spoken nonsense, but informed her:
“Gilpin’s my name. John Gilpin; but my dame says I’m no descendant of him that took that famous ride as is in the story books. I’m too slow, Dame says. But is all your clothes in that satchel?”
It was Dorothy’s turn to stare and to laugh.
“Oh! no, indeed! They’re in my trunk. Here is my check. Number 70777. I put that down in my little notebook, though it’s easy to remember.”
“Humph! I’ve heard that in the States they call a box a ‘trunk,’ same’s if it was an elephant. Well, give me the check. I’ll just step-an’-fetch it and we’ll be jogging.”
Mr. Gilpin took the check and lumbered away, dragging one leg stiffly as if he could not bend the knee, while Dorothy’s spirits rose as she watched him. After all, this was a real adventure; and when it was over and she was safe at her fine school, she could write all about it to the friends at home. Thinking about them, she forgot how long John Gilpin tarried and roused from her reverie with a start when his hearty voice, guiding his oxen, came around the corner of the station.
“Here we be, lassie! Ever ride in an ox-cart? Ever see a neater yoke o’ cattle? That’s an unco big box for a small maid to own and hefty, to boot. Step right in, for it’s gathering clouds, I see, and we can’t have that tidy dress of yours get spoiled while it’s new.”
