ByWILLIS BOYD ALLEN
Boston
MDCCCXCV{1}
CHRISTMAS ON WHEELS.
I.
RAILROAD station in a large city is hardly an inviting spot, at itsbest; but at the close of a cheerless, blustering December day, whenbiting draughts of wind come scurrying in at every open door, fillingthe air with a gray compound of dust and fine snow; when passengerstramp up and down the long platform, waiting impatiently for theirtrains; when newsboys wander about with disconsolate, red faces, handsin pockets and bundles of unsold papers under their ragged and shiveringarms; when, in general, human-kind presents itself as altogether afrozen, forlorn, discouraged, and hopeless race, condemned to be sweptabout on the nipping, dusty{2} wind, like Francesca and her lover, at therate of thirty miles an hour—then the station becomes positivelyunendurable.
So thought Bob Estabrook as he paced to and fro in the Boston & Albanydepot, traveling-bag in hand, on just such a night as I have described.Beside him, locomotives puffed and plunged and backed on the shiningrails, as if they, too, felt compelled to trot up and down to keepthemselves warm, and in even tolerably good humor.
“Just my luck!” growled Bob with a misanthropic glare at a loud-voicedfamily who were passing; “Christmas coming, two jolly Brighton partiesand an oratorio thrown up, and here am I, fired off to San Francisco. Somuch for being junior member of a law firm. Wonder what”—
Here the ruffled current of his meditations ran plump against a rock,and as suddenly diverged from its former{3} course. The rock was no lessthan a young person who at that moment approached with a gray-haired manand inquired the way to the ticket office.
“Just beyond the waiting-room, on the right,” replied Bob, pointing tothe office and lifting his hat courteously, in response to the lady’squestion.
He watched them with growing interest as they followed his directionsand stood before the lighted window. The two silhouettes were decidedlyout of the common. The voice, whose delicate tones still lingeredpleasantly about Mr. Robert Estabrook’s fastidious ears, was anindividual voice, as distinguishable from any other he remembered as wasthe owner’s bright face, the little fur collar beneath it, thedaintily-gloved hands, and the pretty brown traveling suit.
“Dignified old fellow!” mused Bob, irrelevantly, as the couple movedto{4}ward the train gates. “Probably her father. Perhaps—hallo! byGeorge, they’re going on my car!”
With which breath of summer in his winter of discontent the young manproceeded to finish his cigar, consult his watch, and, as the lastwarning bell rang, step upon the platform of the already moving Pullman.
It must be admitted that as he entered he gave an expectant glance downthe aisle of the car; but the sombre curtains hanging from ceiling tofloor told no tales. Too sleepy to speculate and too learned in themarvelous acoustic properties of a sleeping-car to engage the porter inconversation on the subject, he found h