It has been well said that a railway station is a fit emblem of human life, with its brief merriment and grief, its greetings and good-bys, its clamor of coming and going.
Be this as it may, it is probable that of the half a thousand people in the Lowell Depot that morning, but few abandoned themselves to moral reflections. Certainly Tom Percival was not occupied with philosophical meditation, as he stood on the lowest step of the car “Kamloops,” looking out eagerly over the crowd that surged to and fro on the platform beside the train.
“Halloo, Ran!” he shouted suddenly, waving his hat and beckoning to a young man of about his own age, who was making his way toward the car, valise in hand.
“All right, Tom,” responded the other. “Come along, Fred,” he added to a companion at his side. “Here’s the ‘old cabin home’ for the next week or so, I suppose.”
The three young fellows—or boys, as it is easier to call them, once for all—shook hands all round, and then, standing on the car platform, turned to the crowd again as the train started and slowly moved out of the station.
“Good-by! good-by!”
“Be sure to write!”
“Bring me a totem pole from Alaska!”