Throughout the week we had looked forward to this day, and even more, perhaps, to the party which, if we could get back to Washington that night, was to follow it; wherefore the first thing we did on reaching a place where information was obtainable was to inquire about facilities for leaving.  Herein my companion had the advantage of me, for there was nothing to prevent his departing immediately after the races, whereas I must remain behind for an hour or two, to learn something of fox-hunting as practised in this region.

By motoring immediately after the races to a neighboring town—­Bluemont if I remember rightly—­and there taking an interurban trolley to some other place, and changing cars, and going without his dinner, my companion found that he could get to Washington by nine o’clock.  My case was different.  Should I be delayed more than two hours I could not get away at all that night, but must miss the much anticipated party altogether; and, though my companion seemed to view this possibility with perfect equanimity, my memories of the charming lady whom we were to meet at the stage door, after the performance, were too clear to permit of indifference in me.  The trolley my companion meant to catch was, however, the last one; my only hope, therefore, was to motor a distance of perhaps a dozen miles, over roads which I was frankly told were “middling to bad,” and try to catch a train at The Plains station.  If I missed this train, I was lost, and must spend a solitary night in such a room as I might be able to find in a strange village.  That possibility did not appeal to me.  I began to wish that there was no such thing as fox-hunting, or that, there being such a thing, I had chosen to ignore it.

“Now,” said my companion cheerfully, “we’ll telegraph her.”

At a telegraph office he seized the pencil and wrote the following message: 

     Will call for you to-night after performance.

To this he signed his own name.

“What about me?” I suggested, after glancing over his shoulder at the message.

“Oh, well,” said he, “there’s no use in going into all that in a telegram.  It’s sufficient to let her know that one of us is coming.”

“But I proposed this party.”

“Well,” he gave in, with an air of pained patience, “what shall I say, then?  Shall I add that you are unavoidably detained?”

“Not by a jugful!” I returned.  “Add that I hope to get there too, and will make every effort to do so.”

He wrote it out, sighing as he did so.  Then, by careful cutting, he got it down to fourteen words.  By that time the operator couldn’t read it, so he wrote it out again—­gloomily.

This accomplished, we matched coins to see who should pay for the message.  He lost.

“All right!” he said.  “I’ll pay for it, but it’s all foolishness to send such a long telegram.”

“No,” I returned, as we left the office and got into the machine, “it is not foolishness.  If I can make life a little brighter for a beautiful woman, by adding a few words to a telegram, and sticking you for it, I shall do it every time.”