Things began to happen then, starting with the faint shivering of the
timbers under their feet and a blast of whistle. A door blew open on a
gust of sleet.
Tom Willets slammed down the ticket grating and the straggle of
travelers made stooping dives for their luggage. Katie hoisted her
babies. Henry strode in, and as if shooed, the group began to move out
to the ice-sheeted platform.
“Got your ticket, Dave?”
“Yep, Henry.”
“Remember us to the folks down Springfield, Dave.”
“Yep.”
“Don’t forget to give Rita that strip of red flannel, son. It’s packed
under your shirts. Phil writes baby had quite another spell of croup.”
“No’m.”
“Write a body, son, and come home by the first holiday they give you.
Don’t bang that shoe-box, Dave. There’s a jar of cole-slaw in it. Don’t
throw the glass away. Take it to Rita for her jelly-time. There’s
mustard in a separate paper for the sliced bologna, son. Plenty of it
the way you like.”
How terrible. How Terrible. How TERRIBLE. Dora’s eyes laughing—at him!
“Mother!”
“I hope you put in a good dill-pickle, Mrs. Schuyler. He used to steal
them for me out of your crocks and squirm through the hedge with large,
green, luscious beauties for me.”
“Two of them are in there, Dave. And a bit of corned-beef to munch with
the cole-slaw. He’s a great one for corned-beef and cole-slaw, Dora.
Queer combination. Never saw the like.”[70]
“Corned-beef and cole-slaw,” in front of Dora, when his heart was
bursting to tell her that her eyes were violets! Tears would come.
Humiliated hot ones which he kept swallowing back. Corned beef——
“Goodby, Dave! I’ll be waiting.”
“Dora! Dora! goodby, Dora!”
“Goodby, son! God bless you!”
“Mother, goodby!”
“Boy! Boy! Boy!”
“Yes, Mother!”
“Goodby, son! God bless you!”
“Father—oh, Father!”
“Carry your own torch, son, for what you think is right, even if it’s a
torch no bigger than a lightning-bug.”
“Yes—Father—goodby!”
“Goodby, Davey—Trina sends word, goodby, too.”
“Goodby, Katie——”
“Tell my twins goodby, Davey!”
“Goodby, youngsters!”
The train dove in then, parting the sleet like a curtain and Charlie
Herkhimer sprang up out of nowhere, in furiously greasy overalls and a
torch, and began poking in and out of the day-coach entrails.
“So long, Dave! Luck!”
“S’long, Charlie! Well, well! Guess I’m off Henry!”
“Yep!”
“All aboard!”
“Oh, Davey—there comes Bek!”
“Goodby, Dave! Catch! It’s a sack of chestnuts Roasted them for you
this morning.”
“Thanks, Bek! Goodby, Bek!”
“Don’t eat them, son; they’re bad for your headaches Take them to Phil.”
“Mother—Father—all—Bek—Dora—Goodby!”
“Your shoe-box, son! Don’t crush! It’s lunch!”
“Wave goodby to my twins, Davey!”
“’By, twins!”
“Oh!”
Sleet bounced down against the shoulders of the little group on the
platform, as the train that bore David Schuyler out of the years of his
childhood, wound like snake around the end of the old South Meadow of
the now historic House on Sycamore Street.