Keystone Kids Read Free Page B

handbags, but after all those were plenty for their needs. They walked down the train. A conductor stopped them.
    “Tickets, please. The cars are not ready yet.”
    “We’re with the Dodgers. Room H in car FB-2.”
    The conductor immediately nodded respectfully and pointed ahead. Astonishing how the password worked. At last they found a window of one Pullman with the figures FB-2.
    The conductor standing at the entrance greeted them with deference and the porter took their bags and ushered them inside. A draught of cool air swept their faces, clean and refreshing after the intense August heat of the station. They were walking on a thick carpet through a passageway into the car. It was new, painted a delicate green, with soft indirect lighting overhead. Down the side by the windows was a long corridor from which opened a dozen doors. The porter pushed theirs open. It was like nothing they had ever seen; a small room, compact and complete in every detail. On the side opposite the corridor was a wide plush seat.
    “Yeah, O.K. But where’m I gonna sleep?” interjected Bob.
    The porter grinned. “You boys making your first trip with the club? Where you-all from? Where? Nashville? Sure ’nuff! That’s mah home town, yessir. See, we let this down, the upper one, like this.” He stepped up and, reaching above with a kind of key in his hand, released the upper berth which dropped down. He stood hesitating. Spike instantly guessed what he wanted and fumbled for a dime. The porter hesitated no longer. He left abruptly. While Spike stood thinking: This trip is going to cost money, a dime here, a dime there...
    Now the players were pouring in, followed by porters staggering under the luxurious leather suitcases and bags. They entered their rooms, banging doors, calling to each other up and down the corridor, the loud, cheerful sounds of healthy men off duty. They were happy after winning the afternoon’s doubleheader and pulling up within two games of the league-leading Pirates. Their voices echoed up and down the car, evidently filled with ballplayers. Strange faces passed by the room, glanced at the two boys and went on. Sitting stiffly on the edge of the plush seat, they heard the strange voices and felt like homesick boys at a new school. All that banter was something in which they had no part.
    “Hey, Jake, how ’bout a game after dinner.... Yeah, I played Terre Haute one season. They call it Terrible Hot out there and, b’lieve me, it is hot... I was round the course in 82; yes I was, too. You ask Karl... Hey, guys, c’mon! I could eat a raw potato... Who’s for dinner...”
    Spike realized he was hungry. A sandwich would surely taste good. Then a figure brushed past, someone with a round frank face and open brown eyes who looked in at them curiously. He hesitated a minute and half smiled. Spike immediately recognized him. Bob didn’t.
    “Who’s that?”
    “Sssh. Not so loud, Bob. That must be Tucker, the boy who led the league in batting a few years ago.” The figure passed by once more and Spike hailed him.
    “Say, Mister, is there any place here we could get us a sandwich?”
    “You’re the Russell boys from Nashville, aren’t you? Heard all sorts of good things about you boys. I’m Roy Tucker.” He entered and shook hands with them. “Our dining car is up front three-four cars. We’ve also got our own lounge car, too; that’s the one beyond the diner. Say, lemme know if I can help any. I only came up myself a few years ago.”
    They looked at each other. Private diners, private lounge cars. Boy, is this a life!
    “Let’s go, Bobby.”
    They went out and moved toward the front of the car, pulling and tugging on the door until they discovered that the handle pulled sideways instead of directly backward. From the platform of the car they noticed several players saying good-by to elegant ladies beside the train. Porters with more baggage shoved past. Then the next car, another softly lighted interior,