t was late afternoon by the time Jimmy had his next moves figured out.
He left the home he'd grown up in, the home of his parents, of his own
babyhood. He'd wandered through it for the last time, touching this and
saying goodbye to that. He was certain that he would never see his things
again, nor the house itself, but the real vacuum of his loss hadn't yet
started to form. The concepts of "never" and "forever" were merely words
that had no real impact.

So was the word "Farewell."

But once his words were said, Jimmy Holden made his small but confident
way to the window of a railroad ticket agent.

CHAPTER TWO

You are a ticket agent, settled in the routine of your job. From nine to
five-thirty, five days a week, you see one face after another. There are
cheerful faces, sullen faces, faces that breathe garlic, whiskey, chewing
gum, toothpaste and tobacco fumes. Old faces, young faces, dull faces,
scarred faces, clear faces, plain faces and faces so plastered with
makeup that their nature can't be seen at all. They bark place-names at
you, or ask pleasantly about the cost of round-trip versus one-way
tickets to Chicago or East Burlap. You deal with them and then you wait
for the next.

Then one afternoon, about four o'clock, a face barely visible over the
edge of the marble counter looks up at you with a boy's cheerful freckled
smile. You have to stand up in order to see him. You smile, and he grins
at you. Among his belongings is a little leather suitcase, kid's size,
but not a toy. He is standing on it. Under his arm is a collection of
comic books, in one small fist is the remains of a candy bar and in the
other the string of a floating balloon.

"Well, young man, where to? Paris? London? Maybe Mars?"

"No, sir," comes the piping voice, "Roun-tree."

"Roundtree? Yes, I've heard of that metropolis," you reply. You look over
his head, there aren't any other customers in line behind him so you
don't mind passing the time of day. "Round-trip or one-way?"

"One-way," comes the quick reply.

This brings you to a slow stop. He does not giggle nor prattle, nor
launch into a long and involved explanation with halting, dependent
clauses. This one knows what he wants and how to ask for it. Quite a
little man!

"How old are you, young fellow?"

"I was five years old yesterday."

"What's your name?"

"I'm James Holden."

The name does not ring any bells--because the morning newspaper is
purchased for it