At this point I had a flash of memory, so vivid and so complete, I could scarcely contain myself. It was like opening a Japanese fan. The picture was of a time when George and I were still twins, so to speak. I was then working for my father, which means I must have been twenty-two or—three. George Marshall had come down with a bad case of pneumonia which had kept him bed-ridden for several months. When he got well enough, his parents shipped him to the country—somewhere in New Jersey. It all started by my receiving a letter from him one day saying that he was recuperating fast and wouldn’t I come to visit him. I was only too glad of the chance to steal a few days’ vacation, and so I sent him a wire saying I’d be there the following day.
It was late autumn. The countryside was cheerless. George met me at the station, with his young cousin, Herbie. (The farm was run by George’s aunt and uncle, that is, his mother’s sister and her husband.) The first words out of his mouth—as I might well have expected!—were to the effect that it was his mother who had saved his life. He was overjoyed to see me and appeared to be in excellent shape. He was brown and weather-beaten.
The grub is wonderful, Hen, he said. It’s a real farm, you know.
To me it looked much like any other farm—sort of seedy, grubby and run-down. His aunt was a stout, kind-hearted, motherly creature whom George worshipped, apparently, almost as much as he did his mother. Herbie, the son, was a bit of a zany. A blabbermouth too. But what got me at once was the look of wonder in his eyes. He evidently idolized George. And then the way we talked to one another was something new for him. It was hard to shake him off our heels.
The first thing we did—I remember it so well—was to have a tall glass of milk. Rich milk. Milk such as I hadn’t tasted since I was a boy. Drink five and six of them a day, says George. He cut me a thick slice of home-made bread, spread some country butter over it, and over that some home-made jam.
Did you bring any old clothes with you, Hen? I confessed I hadn’t thought of that. Never mind, I’ll lend you my things. You’ve got to wear old clothes here. You’ll see.
He looked pointedly at Herbie. Eh, Herbie?
I had arrived on the afternoon train. It was now getting on to dark. Change your clothes, Hen, and we’ll take a brisk hike. Dinner won’t be ready till seven. Got to work up an appetite, you know.
Yeah, said Herbie, we’re going to have chicken to-night.
And in the next breath he asked me if I were a good runner.
George gave me a sly wink. He’s crazy about games, Hen.
When I met them at the foot of the stairs I was handed a big stick. Better wear your gloves, said Herbie.
He threw me a big woollen muffler.
All set? says George. Come on, let’s hurry. And he starts off at a record-breaking clip.
Why the hurry? said I. Where are we going?
Down by the station, said Herbie.
And what’s down there?
You’ll see. Won’t he, George?
The station was a dismal, forlorn affair. A line of freight cars were standing there, waiting for milk cans, no doubt.
Listen, said George, slowing up a bit to keep in step with me, the idea is to take the lead. You know what I mean! He talked rapidly, mumbling the words, as if there were something secretive connected with our actions. Up to now there’s been just Herbie and me: we’ve had to make our own fun. Nothing to worry about, Hen. You’ll get on to it quick enough. Just follow me.
I was more than ever baffled by this quixotic piece of information. As we hopped along Herbie became positively electrified. He gabbled like an old turkey cock.
George opened the door of the station softly, stealthily, and peered inside. An old drunk was snoozing away on the bench. Here, said George, grabbing my hat and stuffing an old cap in my hand, wear this! He shoves a crazy looking contraption on his own head and pins a badge on his coat. You stay here, he commands, and I’ll open shop. Do just as Herbie does and you’ll be all right.
As George ducks into the office and opens the ticket window Herbie pulls me by the hand. This is it, Hen, says he, going up to the window where George is already standing, pretending to make up the train schedule.
Sir, I would like to buy a ticket, says Herbie in a timid voice.
A ticket to where? says George, frowning. We’ve got all kinds of tickets here. Do you want first, second, or third class? Let’s see, the Weehawken Express pulls out of here in about eight minutes. She’s making a connection with the Denver and Rio Grande at Omaha Junction. Any baggage?
Please sir, I don’t know where I want to go yet.
Whaddaya mean, you don’t know where you want to go? What do you think this is—a lottery? Who’s that man behind you? Any relation of yours? Herbie turns round to look at me and blinks. He’s my great uncle, sir. Wants to go to Winnipeg, but he’s not sure when.
Tell him to step up here. What’s the matter with him—is he deaf or just hard of hearing?
Herbie pushed me in front of him. We look at each other, George Marshall and I, as if we had never seen each other before.
I just came from Winnipeg, says I. Isn’t there some other place I could go to?
I could sell you a ticket to New Brunswick, but there wouldn’t be much, in it for the company. We’ve got to make ends meet, you know. Now here’s a nice looking ticket for Spuyten Duyvil—how would that suit you? Or would you like something more expensive?
I’d like to go by way of the Great Lakes, if you could arrange it.
Arrange it? That’s my business! How many in the party? Any cats or dogs? You know the lakes are frozen now, don’t you? But you can catch the iceboat this side of Canandaigua. I don’t have to draw a map for you, do I?
I leaned forward as it to communicate something private and confidential.
Don’t whisper! he shouted, banging a ruler against the counter. It’s against the rules … Now then, what is it you wished to convey to me? Speak clearly and pause for your commas and semi-colons.
It’s about the coffin, I said.
The coffin? Why didn’t you mention that right off? Hold on a minute, I’ll have to telegraph the dispatch master. He went over to the machine and tapped the keys. Got to get a special routing. Livestock and corpses take the deferred route. They spoil too quickly … Anything in the coffin besides the body?
Yes sir, my wife.
Get the hell out of here before I call the police! Down came the window with a bang. And then an infernal racket inside the coop, as if the new station master had run amok.
Quick, says Herbie, let’s get out of here. I know a short cut, come on! And grabbing my hand, he pulls me out by the other door, around by the water tank. Flop down, quick, he says, or they’ll spy you. We flopped in a puddle of dirty water under the tank. Shhhhh! says Herbie, putting his finger over my lips. They might hear you.
We lay there a few minutes, then Herbie got up on all fours, cautiously, looking about as if we were already trapped. You lay here a minute and I’ll run up the ladder and see if the tank’s empty.
They’re nuts, I said to myself. Suddenly I asked myself why I should be lying in that cold dirty water. Herbie called softly: Come on up, the coast is clear. We can hide in here a while. As I gripped the iron rungs I felt wind go through me like an icy blast. Don’t fall in, says Herbie, the tank’s half-full. I climbed to the top and hung from the inside of the tank with frozen hands. How long do we stay this way? I asked after a few minutes. Not long, says Herbie. They’re changing the watch now. Hear ‘em? George’ll be waiting for us in the caboose. He’ll have a nice warm stove going.
It was dark when we clambered out of the tank and raced across the yard to the end of the freight train standing on the siding. I was frozen through and through. Herbie was right. As we opened the door of the caboose there was George sitting before a hot stove, warming his hands.
Take your coat off, Hen, he says, and dry yourself. Then he reaches up to a little closet and gets down a flask of whiskey. Here, take a good pull—this is dynamite. I did as instructed, passed the flask to George who took a good swig himself, and then to little Herbie.
Did you bring any provisions? says George to Herbie.
A chippie and a couple of potatoes, says
