teen minutes passed. Then there was a whistle down the tracks. The Lambs arose and sought the platform of the station. The Cleveland train steamed clangily in and wheezed to a stop. Harold's shiny new trunk was slid off the station truck into the yawning door of the baggage car by leathery hands as casually as if it made the trip every day.
"Good-by, dad," Harold gulped. Henry Lamb's lips quivered as he took his son's hand. "Good-by, mother," Harold trembled and he took her frail body into his long arms and kissed her many times. When he released her, they were both weeping frankly.
"You'll be a good boy, Harold," she quavered. "And you'll write me—as often as you can?"
"Every day," he promised, his shiny eyes trying to smile. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."
"All aboard," cried the impassive conductor.
Harold swung, waving his hand to the two small figures on the platform, up the car steps. He stood there waving, and waved to, until the train drew him out of sight. Then he gulped again, very deeply. He walked slowly into the car of the swaying train. Already he felt strangely alone and far from cheerful. He was leaving the only world he knew be-
