The brakeman, returning, paused and inquired right and left on his way through. He leaned to me.
“You for North Platte?”
“No, sir. Benton, Wyoming Territory.”
“Then you’d better move up to the car ahead. This car stops at North Platte.”
“What time do we reach North Platte?” 27
“Two-thirty in the morning. If you don’t want to be waked up, you’d better change now. You’ll find a seat.”
At that I gladly followed him out. He indicated a half-empty seat.
“This gentleman gets off a bit farther on; then you’ll have the seat to yourself.”
The arrangement was satisfactory, albeit the “gentleman” with whom I shared appeared, to nose and eyes, rather well soused, as they say; but fortune had favored me—across the aisle, only a couple of seats beyond, I glimpsed the top of a golden head, securely low and barricaded in by luggage.
Without regrets I abandoned my former seat-mate to her disappointment when she waked at North Platte. This car was the place for me, set apart by the salient presence of one person among all the others. That, however, is apt to differentiate city from city, and even land from land.