From New York to Tacoma is a long journey. Over three thousand miles must be traversed by rail, but the trip is far from tiresome. Chester and his companion thoroughly enjoyed it. All was new and strange, and the broad spaces through which they passed were full of interest.
They stopped at Niagara Falls, but only for a few hours, and spent a day in Chicago. Then they were whirled onward to St. Paul and Minneapolis, and later on over the broad plains of North Dakota and through the mountains of Montana.
“I never thought the country was so large before,” said Chester to Edward. “You have been over the ground once before.”
“Yes; but part of it was during the night, It is pleasant to see it once more. Many of the places have grown considerably, though it is only two years since I came from Portland.”
Chester made some agreeable acquaintances. An unsociable traveler misses many of the profitable results of his journey, besides finding time hang heavily on his hands.
Just after leaving Bismarck, in North Dakota, Chester’s attention was called to an old man, whose white hair and wrinkled face indicated that he had passed the age of seventy years.
The conductor came through the car, collecting tickets. The old man searched for his, and an expression of dismay overspread his face.
“I can’t find my ticket,” he said.
“That is unfortunate. Where did you come from?”
“From Buffalo.”