check. Although Harold had never before contemplated a railroad trip in a sleeping car, he had no qualms. When the local train arrived in the Ohio metropolis, Harold lugged his new suitcase down to the street level of the station. He stood on the hot sidewalk, his hand luggage at his feet. It consisted of a worn and bulging suitcase, rescued from the Lamb garret, a new hand bag, golf bag, tennis racket and ukulele. He looked out into the cobble-stoned street at the steady procession of trolley cars clanging past him. He wished Uncle Peter could have been there to direct him. But Uncle Peter was out of town. Eventually he located a trolley car bearing the name of the station where he was supposed to board the express train for Tate. He hailed the car and struggled onto it with his luggage, earning the wrath of conductors and passengers as he bumped into them with his unwieldy burden.
Finally he reached his destination and bore his bags into the high-domed waiting room of the second station. He dropped down into a seat, draping his baggage around him. He mopped his brow. He had a whole hour to wait for his train. But he stayed there, taking no chances. He watched the milling crowds and fingered his Pullman tickets nervously.
