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.