Bob sat up and massaged his legs and arms. It was quite clear out now and the local was rocking along a desolate stretch of Florida east coast. Somewhere along the line the other passengers had left the train and Bob was now the only occupant of the coach.
He got up and walked to the water cooler. Fortunately there was an ample supply of water and after bathing his face and hands with the cool liquid, he felt much refreshed though ravenously hungry.
Up ahead the engineer blasted his whistle for a highway crossing and Bob felt the air brakes go on, the old wooden coach jumping around in protest as the speed dropped sharply. They clacked over switches and Bob, looking ahead, could see a weather beaten station, on the other side of which another train was standing. This, he concluded, must be the junction.
The conductor, coming back from the baggage car, gave Bob his train check.
“Don’t have many passengers going to Atalissa,” he said. “Them that wants to get there usually go by car or boat.”
The local rocked to a creaking halt and Bob, his Gladstone in hand, stepped down on the cinder platform.
The accommodation which was to take him the rest of the way to Atalissa was on the other side of the station. The engine, an antiquated little affair, looked about like a teakettle, but the two freight cars and the passenger car on the back end were standard size equipment.
The conductor, in faded blue overalls, looked at Bob’s ticket.
“Guess you’re the only passenger,” he said. “Well, we might as well be going.”
“How about breakfast?” asked Bob.