I am no pessimist. I base this expectation on the simple fact
that every commuter I know, for as long a period as I have known him,
has been looking forward to the completion of railway improvements
involving the expenditure of tens of millions of dollars. The march of
progress apparently finds the suburban resident always a little in
advance.
Harrington met me at the station and asked me if that was not a very
good train I had come down on. The suburban virus was in me. I lied and
said yes. As we sat at our luncheon I felt how peculiarly a vital factor
in out-of-town existence the railroad constitutes. Both Harrington and
his wife spoke of trains as of living, breathing people. Some trains,
with all their faults, the Harringtons evidently loved. Others they
detested, and made no attempt to conceal the fact. I had just finished
telling Mrs. Harrington about the latest woman's suffrage parade when
Harrington said: "Do you know, my dear, the 8.13 is getting worse all
the time." I was still thinking of my own story, and I failed to catch
just who or what it was that was getting worse all the time to an extent
so inimical to Harrington's peace of mind.
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