draught and the nipping February air accompanied by fine cinder dust blew through the screen across his face. The porter, on request, had adjusted a table above his knees and Ambrose had tried the only game of solitaire he knew, a game so easy that he found himself constantly winning, and it is only amusing to lose games of solitaire for only thus does one gain an incentive to continue. He had read the current issue of the Saturday Evening Post to the last advertising page; he had considered the plight of the poor farmer; he had reflected on the subject of Calvin Coolidge; he had even wondered whether there was a God.
Vaguely sensing a desire to write letters, he made his stumbling way to the club car, bumping his legs against the chair-arms of seven coaches, encountering passengers who somehow all looked alike, reading, playing cards, nursing babies, occupied as uninterestingly as passengers usually are. Opening the third door, he mused on the identity of the fellow who invented names for Pullman coaches. Was it indeed one man, or two, or three, or perhaps even a syndicate? This passion for naming things! Even telephone exchanges and toilets had to have names.
An amiable group had congregated in the club car.
