When the New York Central inaugurated its fast service between New York and Chicago there was a great pother along the main line. Employees of whatsoever rank were instructed that the paramount consideration was to get the Twentieth Century Limited through on schedule. If the slightest mishap occurred to the train all hands were charged to forward prompt reports to headquarters, giving the complete details. At a small flag-stop west of Albany, the station-agent was a callow youth. By enthusiasm and a sense of his responsibilities he made up, though, for what he lacked in experience. In addition to being the ticket-seller he also was the despatcher. One wintry evening just at dusk he caught, passing over the wire, word that the Twentieth Century Limited was two hours behind time. What had retarded her he did not learn, but he knew wherein his duty lay. He lit his lantern, sharpened a pencil, and got out a notebook, then sat him down to bide his time. Ten minutes before the belated Limited was due to whiz past he left the station, walked eastward along the tracks a quarter of a mile and posted himself between the rails. Soon the headlight hove into sight. In an effort to make up the precious lost minutes the engineer was driving his locomotive at tremendous speed. Suddenly far ahead he saw the dancing signal of a lantern. He gave her the brakes; he gave her the sand. Passengers in the coaches behind were slammed up against the end bulkheads of their berths. With sparks flying from her wheels, the snorting mogul stopped not fifty feet distant from where the youth stood. The engineer and his fireman dropped down from the cab and ran forward, sputtering questions. The station-agent stilled them with an authoritative gesture. He put down his lantern on the right-of-way, braced his pad in the crook of his elbow, poised his pencil ready to record their answers and said briskly: “Now then, boys, tell me—what detained you?” § 211 The Curfew in Nebraska Of course, in these days, when no community is so small or so obscure or so old-fashioned that it lacks service stations and jazz orchestras and schemes for a proposed Civic Center, this story no longer could be made to apply in any American town. As the tale runs, a man who had been born and reared in a remote Nebraska country-seat moved to New York where he succeeded in business. Years later a friend from his former home came to see him. Naturally, talk drifted back to childhood scenes and memories. “I guess the old town hasn’t changed much, has it, Jim?” asked the New Yorker. “Not much,” said Jim. “She’s pretty much the same.” “I presume they still blow the curfew whistle at nine o’clock every night just as they started to do shortly before I moved East?” “Naw, they had to quit that after a few months. It woke everybody up!” § 212 The Reward of the Early Riser