“Seems like we’re goin’ all the w’ile,” says he. “It’s Hot Springs or New Orleans or Florida or Atlantic City or California or somewheres.”
“Do you get passes?” I ast him.
“I guess I could if I wanted to,” he says. “Some o’ my best friends is way up in the railroad business.”
“I got one like that,” I says. “He generally stands on the fourth or fifth car behind the engine.”
“Do you travel much?” he ast me.
“I don’t live in St. Louis,” says I.
“Is this your first trip south?” he ast.
“Oh, no,” I says. “I live on Sixty-fifth Street.”
“I meant, have you ever been down this way before?”
“Oh, yes,” says I. “I come down every winter.”
“Where do you go?” he ast.
That’s what I was layin’ for.
“Palm Beach,” says I.
“I used to go there,” he says. “But I’ve cut it out. It ain’t like it used to be. They leave everybody in now.”
“Yes,” I says; “but a man don’t have to mix up with ’em.”
“You can’t just ignore people that comes up and talks to you,” he says.
“Are you bothered that way much?” I ast.