After the purchase of a complete outfit, it will be necessary to
say goodbye to one’s local friends. Partings are always somewhat
sad, but it will be found that much simple pleasure may be
derived from the last nights with the various boys to whom one is
engaged.
In this connection, however, it would be well to avoid making any
rash statements regarding undying friendship and affection,
because, when you next see Eddie or Walter, at Christmas time,
you will have been three months in the East, while they have been
at the State University, and really, after one starts dancing
with Yale men—well, it’s a funny world.
In case you do not happen to meet any friends on the train, the
surest way to protect yourself from any unwelcome advances is to
buy a copy of the _Atlantic Monthly_ and carry it, in plain view.
Next to a hare lip, this is the safest protection for a
travelling young girl that I know of; it has, however, the one
objection that all the old ladies on the train are likely to tell
you what they think of Katherine Fullerton Gerould, or their
rheumatism.
If you are compelled to go to the dining car alone, you will
probably sit beside an Elk with white socks, who will call the
waiter “George.” Along about the second course he will say to
you, “It’s warm for September, isn’t it?” to which you should
answer “No.” That will dispose of the Elk.
Across the table from you will be a Grand Army man and his wife,
going to visit their boy Elmer’s wife’s folks in Schenectady.
When the fish is served, the Grand Army man will choke on a bone.
Let him choke, but do not be too hopeful, as the chances are that
he will dislodge the bone. All will go well until the dessert,
when his wife will begin telling how raspberry sherbet always
disagrees with her. Offer her your raspberry sherbet.
After dinner you may wish to read for a while, but the porter
will probably have made up all the berths for the night. It will
also be found that the light in your berth does not work, so you
will be awake for a long time; finally, just as you are leaving
Buffalo, you will at last get to sleep, and when you open your
eyes again, you will be—in Buffalo.
There will be two more awakenings that night—once at Batavia,
where a merry wedding party with horns and cow bells will follow
the lucky bride and groom into your car, and once at Schenectady,
where the Pullman car shock-absorbing tests are held. The next
morning, tired but unhappy, you will reach New York.