Jimmy's trip to Roundtree was without incident. Actually, it was easy
once he had hurdled the ticket-seller with his forged note and the
five-dollar bill from the cashbox in his father's desk. His error in not
making it a ten was minor; a larger tip would not have provided him with
better service, because the train crew were happy to keep an eye on the
adventurous youngster for his own small sake. Their mild resentment
against the small tip was directed against the boy's father, not the
young passenger himself.

He had one problem. The train was hardly out of the station before
everybody on it knew that there was a five-year-old making a trip all
by himself. Of course, he was not to be bothered, but everybody wanted
to talk to him, to ask him how he was, to chatter endlessly at him.
Jimmy did not want to talk. His experience in addressing adults was
exasperating. That he spoke lucid English instead of babygab did not
compel a rational response. Those who heard him speak made over him
with the same effusive superiority that they used in applauding a
golden-haired tot in high heels and a strapless evening gown sitting
on a piano and singing, _Why Was I Born?_ in a piping, uncertain-toned
voice. It infuriated him.

So he immersed himself in his comic books. He gave his name politely
every five minutes for the first fifty miles. He turned down offers of
candy with, "Mommy says I mustn't before supper." And when dinnertime
came he allowed himself to be escorted through the train by the
conductor, because Jimmy knew that he couldn't handle the doors without
help.

The steward placed a menu in front of him, and then asked carefully, "How
much money do you want to spend, young man?"