VII
A year after the flight of Olaf Ericson's wife, the night train was steaming across the plains of Iowa. The conductor was hurrying through one of the day coaches, his lantern on his arm, when a lank, fair-haired boy sat up in one of the plush seats and tweaked him by the coat.
“What is the next stop, please, sir?”
“Red Oak, Iowa. But you go through to Chicago, don't you?” He looked down, and noticed that the boy's eyes were red and his face was drawn, as if he were in trouble.
“Yes. But I was wondering whether I could get off at the next place and get a train back to Omaha.”
“Well, I suppose you could. Live in Omaha?”
“No. In the western part of the State. How soon do we get to Red Oak?”
“Forty minutes. You'd better make up your mind, so I can tell the baggageman to put your trunk off.”
“Oh, never mind about that! I mean, I haven't got any,” the boy added, blushing.
“Run away,” the conductor thought, as he slammed the coach door behind him.