It was eight-forty-five. The
last train for Washington left at twelve-thirty, and a local from
there reached Fredericksburg at nine-twenty-four the next morning.
He knew the schedules well. "I have three hours and forty-five
minutes," he said, under his breath. "I'd make it if there were but
the forty-five minutes--if there were but ten."
And then it was that Moses, coming in answer to the bell, concluded
that his master was not himself. He had left him a few minutes
before, unapproachable in his silence, unappreciative of his efforts
to please and provide, and now he was giving so many orders at once,
calling for this and for that, pulling out clothes and pushing them
back, that Moses, who hated to be hurried as only his race can hate,
stood helpless, knowing only that something had happened, something
he did not understand.
"Did you say your riding-clothes, sir?" he asked, holding a
dress-shirt in his hand. "Or did you say--"
"I don't know what I said." Laine knocked over a box of
handkerchiefs and threw a white vest on the bed. "Where are my
shaving things? I told you I didn't want a trunk. Take the durned
thing away. I'll break my neck over it! Where is that English
bag--the big one? Get it, will you, and put in my riding-clothes,
evening clothes, and one other suit; put in the things I need.
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