I
The train drew out of the great Van Buren Street depot at 4.30 of a dark
day in late October. A tall young man, with a timid look in his eyes,
was almost the last passenger to get on, and his pale face wore a
worried look as he dropped into an empty seat and peered out at the
squalid city reeling past in the mist.
The buildings grew smaller, and vacant lots appeared stretching away in
flat spaces, broken here and there by ridges of ugly, squat, little
tenement blocks. Over this landscape vast banners of smoke streamed,
magnified by the misty rain which was driven in from the lake.
At last there came a swell of land clothed on with trees. It was still
light enough for him to see that they were burr oaks, and the young
student's heart thrilled at sight of them. His forehead smoothed out,
and his eyes grew tender with boyish memories.
He was seated thus, with head leaning against the pane, when another
young man came down the aisle from the smoking-car and took a seat
beside him with a pleasant word.
He was a handsome young fellow of twenty three or four. His face was
large and beardless, and he had a bold and keen look, in spite of the
bang of yellow hair which hung over his forehead. Some commonplaces
passed between them, and then silence fell on each. The conductor coming
through the car, the smooth-faced young fellow put up a card to be
punched, and the student handed up a ticket, simply saying, "Kesota."