What do you say: want to walk up through the train and see who’s riding?
Yes, this parlor car sure is cute. Mr. Atwood’s pet, too. (Look out! don’t fall over that woman’s feet; she’s spread out there like a pumpkin-vine.) He had painters and repairmen working half the winter restoring this car to her school girl complexion. Most of her’s solid mahogany. She would cost a queen’s dowry to build now: all those inlaid woods, the filigree designs on her ceiling, the brass lamps, expensive upholstery, plate glass windows—the splendor of the legendary Nineties. Can’t buy those things for a song now. Notice how contagious it is—that traditional humor of those old days. Seems to have infected our carload of passengers today—even the old girl with her feet clear across the aisle!
Careful now: watch your step when we cross from the Rangeley over to this coach ahead, the Pondicherry. These little puppies can nip off your leg as quickly as the wide gaugers can.
Quite a car, the Pondicherry, isn’t she? That was the name she had when she was new in 1883, up on the Bridgton & Saco River. Pondicherry was the original name of the town up there; changed it to Bridgton later. I don’t know what it means but somehow I seem to think of it along with County Down, Galway, or Connemara. Could be Swedish or an Indian name, though.
Thirty people can sit in these little one-butt seats. Notice the carved wood and old fashioned windows. Mr. Atwood’s renovating job was about perfect, wasn’t it? She was some little hack in 1883; still is, too. Look into that nut-shell toilet—that’s where you need the shoe-horn!
These cars don’t sway much, do they? Steady and serene as a Shore Line job. Edaville track is just as good, too, comparatively speaking. This big rail—mostly fifty-six pounds to the yard—is heavier in proportion than the New Haven’s big hundred and thirty pound steel.
How fast are we going? Oh, about twenty-five, I guess. Sometimes when he’s feeling extra kipper the engineer inches her out a bit and No. 7’s two-bit drivers will really roll. Mr. Atwood doesn’t approve of that, with a train load of his guests aboard.
(Atwood Photo)
Little Monson No. 3, en route from the junkyard to Mr. Atwood’s railway empire, will soon be repaired and scooting around the bogs.