Ralph Henry Barbour 
Forward Pass 

There was a warning clang from the engine bell and a sudden return to darkness as the fireman slammed the furnace door and tossed the slicer-bar back onto the tender. The express messenger in the car behind pulled close the sliding door and hasped it, pausing afterwards to glance questioningly at the cloudy night sky. At the far end of the train, which curved serpent-wise along the track, the conductor’s lantern rose and fell, the porter seized his footstool and Dan Vinton, after a final hurried kiss, broke from his mother’s arms and ran nimbly up the steps of the already moving sleeper.

“Good-bye, mother, ” he called down into the half-darkness. “Good-bye, father! Good-bye, Mae!”