The Ironton News

ROWENA RIDES
BY THE AUTHOR
THE RUMBLE

WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE:

Rackruff Motors hire Rowena to accompany Peter on a nation-wide tour in their roadster as an advertising stunt. At the last minute Little Bobby is engaged to act as chaperon.

A few miles out Bobby becomes tearful at being parted from her sweetheart and Rowena insists on taking her place in the rumble so that she can ride with Peter and have him to talk to about Carter. Rowena gets Peter to consent to divide the expense money each week as soon as it arrives, and astonishes Peter by eating so economically.

The three tourists reach St. Louis after passing through Buffalo, Chicago, and St. Louis. Peter and Rowena have many tiffs on the way while Carter keeps wiring Bobby to return to New York. The morning after they reach Denver, Peter and Rowena discover Bobby has deserted them and returned to New York by train. They are faced with the impossible condition of continuing their trip without a chaperon.

Rowena suggests to Peter that they make a "companionate" marriage. They are married and go to Cheyenne, where their actions, when they ask for rooms on separate floors, arouses the suspicions of the hotel clerk. They finally succeed in getting rooms, but not without exciting the laughter of the hotel loungers.

They resume the trip the next day and are overwhelmed by a cloudburst in an arroyo and are thrown out of the car. A party of tourist campers gives them dry clothes and food.

Spokane is finally reached and the hotel clerk smiles when they register.

They find Rackruff Motors have arranged a public reception and dance for them. They are deluged with presents.

After the festivities Peter angers the hotel staff by leaving his bride alone all night and Rowena tries to console him for the bad opinion he has won by his actions.

They find Bobbie awaiting them in the hotel at Seattle and she travels with them to Los Angeles where they are met by an unfriendly hotel clerk, who summons the police who thereupon place all three under arrest for kidnapping Bobby.

NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY:

ELEVENTH INSTALLMENT

"See here," said Peter angrily,

"what sort of tommyrot is this anyway? This lady is too old for the Juvenile Court. Why, she is her own mistress. She's twenty-three years old."

"Well, according to the complaint from New York, there is nothing we can do about it. Our orders are to put you under arrest. You'll have to talk to the judge."

"But, Peter," cried Rowena, "are you going to let them arrest us for not being married, when we are married! Look at all the trouble we've had. That's proof enough."

"But why should they say you are only pretending to be married if you really are married?"

"Well, who says so? That's the first question. Where did the complaint come from anyhow?"

"From a gentleman in New York by the name of Carter Wellman."

"You can fix this up," said the officer. "You got influential friends, ain't you? They'll fix you up all right. All they got to do is swear they know all about you and everything's jake and there you are. You just hop down private in your own car with Bill here to show you the way—this is Bill Harmon—fine chap, too—he'll go down with you and introduce you to the judge. He's a swell gent, the judge is. He'll see how things are in a jiffy."

It was the simplest way out, and the officers made it as easy for them as possible, allowed them to walk unescorted through the lobby of the hotel and waited at a respectful distance when Peter stopped to send a telegram, which he wrote with a very firm hand and signaled for Rowena to come and read. It was addressed to Carter Wellman.

"Are you going to marry Roberta Lowell immediately on her return to New York, or are you not? If your engagement is canceled, as she believes, I shall marry her myself immediately. A rolling brown dumpling gathers nothing but trouble for all concerned. Please state your exact intentions."

"But you can't marry her," protested Rowena. "You're married now."

"Well, he doesn't believe it.—And Rackruff, Inc., will pay for that wire if I have to steal a spare tire to get it."

The judge proved extremely sympathetic and agreed with Peter that it was an outrage, no less, the way people in love embroiled innocent bystanders in the tangled web of their affairs. He had his secretary send off a wire to Denver to verify the marriage, and to Rackruff Motors, Inc., in New York, for details of the trip and complete information regarding Rowena and Peter. He even sent for the local Rackruff dealer, who fortunately turned out to be both a native son and a brother Elk. He was willing to stand entirely responsible for their appearance if required.

Besides seeing to their freedom he made Rowena a present of a friendly little dog which he had found in his showrooms that morning and which Rowena promptly proceeded to call Constantine. Peter grumbled at the addition to their party but was overruled.

And so Rowena had a companion on the rumble seat from then on.

By the salesman's good offices they were enabled to return to the hotel without police escort or surveillance of any kind.

In the early morning Peter read to the girls the answer to his personal telegram.

"Such has been and is my intention," read the telegram. "I am probably the last man living entirely honorable in my dealings with women. Our engagement most certainly is not ended and if you interfere I shall sue. Plan to marry her instant of her arrival. In fact, expect to meet her with license, ring and minister. Wire what train."

So at ten-ten Peter and Rowena stood side by side under the quaint tiled portico of the Santa Fe station and waved a fond—and not ungrateful—farewell to little brown Bobby.

The misadventures of Bobby's return trip were many and varied, but she reached New York safely and was met by Carter, who was plainly worried and who took her at once to his apartments, where she told him the whole story of the trip, including the "companionate" marriage.

"Darling, I hate to ask you again," Peter read, his eyes starting with surprise. "Devil's own luck. Lost fifty bucks at craps. Got to have it this week or they will chuck me out. Rush it by wire. Wish I hadn't played."

It was signed "Buddy."

To Peter it made no sense at all. He turned it over and scrutinized the address again. Ah! That explained it. It was addressed not to "Mr." but to "Mrs. Peter Blande."

His mind traveled back over the trip. Buddy—that was her brother—Ronald Rostand. Ready for his third year in college and taking summer courses to cut down the time and expense. Rowena had received a letter or telegram from him at every stop en route. He remembered her subsequent counting of bills and rush for a telegraph office—her complete financial stringency—the way she starved herself, eschewing all desserts—her thousand painful small economies.

Now Peter realized fully what it meant—this thing that he was going to do. Knew quite well that when Buddy wrote back in complaint of this unwarranted outside interference Rowena's rage would be beyond bounds.

They had talked sometimes of the future when their motor tour was over, thought they would probably be good friends in later years when their business vicissitudes were separate and distinct, and no longer bound up by compulsion in each other's work and wish. But if Peter flung open insult at Buddy—"The sacred cow!" he sneered—all such hopes for the future were null and void. Well, Peter told himself, he didn't know that he cared. After all, he didn't get on so very well with Rowena.

But she was a good sport—the best sport he had ever seen—and deserved a better break than Buddy was giving her.

Peter's grip on the pen made it a sword as he gave form to his scathing thoughts.

"Granting to begin with that it is none of my business," he wrote heavily, "it nevertheless affords me great pleasure to tell you that in my opinion you are an unspeakable cad. You may not know—of course you do not know, for Rowena is one Rostand who is a rousing good sport and would not throw up her privations to you—that in order to meet your insatiate demands for money, your sister, tired and exhausted as she is by hard work and long driving, has saved money by doing her own laundry in the bathtub at nights; has starved herself on soup and coffee and gone without a proper meal for days at a time.

"Better men than you have worked their way through college. For Rowena's sake, I myself am sending you the fifty bucks."

"It is of course quite unnecessary for me to explain that Rowena does not know that you wired for this money nor that I am sending it. Your telegram was handed me by mistake and I opened it under the impression it was for me."

And without an instant's hesitation he endorsed his sentiments with the signature that would one day be worth thousands—"Peter Blande."

Peter was pretty uncomfortable about the whole business. He was not used to any sort of double dealing and was not at all sure but that at any moment officers of the law—or perhaps the telegraph company—would hale him away to jail to expiate his unwarranted manipulation of other people's affairs by telegraph.

At El Paso Rowena had two letters. She sat right down in the nearest chair to read them, and Peter stalked moodily from cigar stand to desk and back again, and watched her furtively.

"Buddy O. K.?" he inquired anxiously.

"He's entirely too O. K. I'm worried."

"You can't be too O. K.," protested Peter. "Nobody can.—What do you mean?"

(Continued Wednesday)

"What, no mail for me?" asked Rowena.

turn and their legal entanglements in Los Angeles had keyed them to a high nervous tension, but when they had left the limits of the city a sudden quiet restfulness descended upon them.

Rowena drooped drowsily against his shoulder.

"Shall I put up the umbrella in the rumble seat?" Peter asked facetiously.

But Rowena pretended she was asleep.

By the time they reached the outskirts of San Diego, Peter as well as Rowena confessed to a complete exhaustion, mental as well as physical.

They pulled up at the U. S. Grant Hotel. There was no boy in sight and Peter, unwilling to waste a moment, himself carried their bags into the lobby and hurried over to the desk. He was surprised at being immediately accommodated with two single rooms.

Their good fortune followed them and they both had a real good night's rest.

Peter had all the bags stowed neatly away in the car the next morning, ready for their start for the East, when Rowena tripped out of the hotel leading the freshly washed Constantine on a brand-new leash attached to a brand-new collar.

"Gosh, Rowena," ejaculated Peter, "what'll we do with the mutt? I forgot about him?"

"Do with Constantine!" she echoed. "Why, we'll buy him a nice silk cushion to ride on, and get him a fresh bone every day. And charge it all to Rackruff."

Peter did his best picture at Grand Canyon, one which brought him no small amount of praise and profit. It was the Rackruff and Rowena riding through the rainbow fringe, with Constantine's queer, quaint black and white head nodding approbation beside her.

Rowena was not having the best of luck with her work in those declining weeks of their tour. She kept a pencil and note-book constantly at hand, even teaching Constantine to carry them for her on command, but ideas were not coming to her with much frequency. For the first time in her life, Rowena did not feel like writing, did not want to be bothered, and it may as well be added, her writing was far below its usual standard.

They lapsed into comfortable silence. They did not quarrel so much when they were alone—there seemed less point to it. To be sure, when occasion required, they would wither each other with a scathing word, but they never went to the old lengths.

In Albuquerque, when Peter had registered and called for their mail he was handed half a dozen telegrams and two or three letters.

"Nothing for Miss Rostand," said the clerk.

"What!" ejaculated Rowena, "Nothing for me? Not anything? Why, Buddy always—he surely must have written. Oh, please look again! There must be at least one!"

The clerk obligingly ran through the mail again.

"Sorry—not a thing," he said again.

"Dear me," said Rowena thoughtfully. "How—extremely odd!"

Alone in his own room, Peter took off his coat and settled down to his mail. A quick glance at the letters told him they were of no especial importance and he turned to the telegrams. The two that he opened first were from the Company, but the third started off on an odd note.