The train whistle shrieked louder than the cold wind racing past its windows, but when Doug Harrison took note of the sound - it came to him as a muffled moan - while he sat upon a bench seat inside a rattling passenger car, six back from a steaming engine, he didn’t immediately realize what it meant.
He looked up from a well-thumbed Toronto newspaper (one of his five buddies had paid a nickel for it the day before, a heavy price he’d thought at the time, but not so now), gazed out the train window and noticed the trees rushing past, as they had for the last hundred miles or more, were thinning.
“Boys, we might see another face in a few minutes,” he said to Leading Seamen Chuck Rose and Buryl McIntyre sitting on the opposite bench and on either side of his resting feet. “I heard the whistle blow and the train seems to be slowing. Good Lord, I could sure use a stretch.”
The train slowed more perceptibly, another sharp whistle blast was sounded, passengers stirred and one old-timer, familiar with isolated Northern Ontario stops and the spare amenities offered at each, said a few words to Doug and the other sailors.
“We’re coming into Hornepayne. Not much more than piles of raw lumber to look at, but there’s hot coffee inside the station.”
Doug and the other sailors stood, straightened, stretched, and shook out a few wrinkles before throwing on standard-issue, heavy, navy blue long coats.
More to follow.
***
Please click here for a related post.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment