“Never you mind whether I did or not, Sam. You do as I tell you and you’ll find things going easier. You aren’t enough older than the boys to make ’em much scared of you, so you want to hold the reins pretty tight at first. No charge for the advice. When do you go?”
“Seven-ten on the fifth. That gets me to East Mendon at eleven-twenty. Then there’s a stage-coach or something that goes over to the Lake at two.”
“I’ll go down and see you off, Sam, and wish you luck.”
And a week later Tom kept his promise. He and Sidney escorted Sam to the train, Tom carrying the traveller’s old-fashioned yellow leather valise and Sid his raincoat, leaving Sam the free use of both hands with which to satisfy himself every two or three moments that his ticket was safe. There was one excruciating minute when they reached Locust Street, and were in sight of the station, when Sam couldn’t find the ticket in any of his pockets and blank dismay overspread his countenance. He was on the verge of retracing his steps when Sidney patiently reminded him that just one block back he had placed the precious pasteboard in the lining of his straw hat for safe-keeping. Sam said, “Oh!” and looked extremely foolish, and, amidst the laughter of his guard of honour, the journey began again.
News of Sam’s departure had spread through town and there was quite a gathering of friends to see him off. Buster Healey was there, with a bouquet consisting of two sprays of gladiolus, mostly in bud, which Buster was suspected of having acquired by the simple expedient of reaching through someone’s garden fence; and Tommy Hughes was there, and Joe Kenny, and half a dozen more; and there was a good deal of noise and rough-house until the train pulled into the station and Sam climbed aboard. You might have thought that Sam was leaving for the Grand Tour or for a year in Darkest Africa. All kinds of advice was showered on him. He was instructed not to put his head out the window, not to speak to strangers, not to take any wooden money, and not to lose his ticket. Then the train moved and a cheer went up and a much embarrassed Sam waved good-bye from a window. And at that moment Buster discovered that Sam had left his flowers on a baggage truck, and rescued them and raced the length of the platform before he was finally able to hurl them in at the window. So began the journey.
[CHAPTER III]
“THE WIGWAM”
Sam had never done much travelling. He had been to Columbus twice and had journeyed around more or less within a fifty-mile radius of Amesville, but penetrating a hundred and twenty-odd miles into the wilds of northern Ohio was something new and not a little exciting. There had never, particularly since his father had died, been much money for railroad tickets and sight-seeing. Sam’s father had been a railroad engineer, and a good one. For many years when Sam was just a little chap Mr. Craig had held the throttle on the big Mogul engine that had pulled the Western Mail through Amesville. Sam didn’t see a great deal of his father in those days, for Mr. Craig “laid-over” in Amesville but twice a week, and the days when he did see him were red-letter days. He had been very fond of his dad, and very proud of him, too; and it had been Sam’s earnest desire to grow up quick and be an engineer too. When, however, in Sam’s twelfth year, Mr. Craig returned home for the last time on a stretcher to live but a few hours, Sam lost that desire. For once the engineer had not been held to blame for an accident; a muddle-headed despatcher had sent the Western Mail crashing into a through freight between sidings; and so the railroad paid a pension to the widow. On this the family had lived until Sam, first, and then Nell, had begun to supplement the pension money with small earnings. Sam had delivered papers, worked in the mill as stock-boy, and tried his hand at several other things, while Nell, having finished school the spring before, was now a public stenographer with a tiny room of her own in Amesville’s new office building, and was a little more than making expenses.
The first thrill of excitement wore off after a half-hour or so, and Sam, tired of watching the view from the car window, picked up the magazine he had bought and settled back to read. The train was not a fast one, and it stopped at a good many stations and seemed disinclined at each to take up its journey again. Nevertheless, it eventually did arrive at East Mendon, and Sam anxiously collected his belongings and alighted. Inquiries elicited the information that the stage started at two o’clock from the other side of the platform, shortly after the arrival of the through express. Consequently Sam had a full two hours and a half to wait. He checked his bag and coat at the station and started out in search of dinner. East Mendon was a small place, hardly more than a full-grown village, and his choice of eating-places was not large. The Commercial Hotel seemed to be the principal hostelry, but Sam knew that if he went there he would have to pay at least seventy-five cents for his meal, and seventy-five cents was about fifty cents more than he cared to spend. At last, on a side street, he came across a small and dingy restaurant which advertised the principal dishes of the day’s menu on a blackboard outside. Sam, his feet spread well apart and his hands in his trousers pockets, studied the list thoughtfully.