Snow is flying. It is early March, and cold. Hardly what one would call “circus” weather, yet there under the train sheds it stands at the end of a south-bound passenger train, a thing of resplendency, of silver and gold lettering, of backgrounds in which the main color is a beaming red, while along the length of it is emblazoned the caption: From ahead the “highball signal.” A few quick handshakes, a last recounting of orders from the general agent who talks to his car manager until the last possible moment. A rear platform, crowded with strong-shouldered young men, milling and jostling. A cheer. The train is moving. Soon only the owner and his general agent remain on the station platform,…
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