The other coaches were filled with bored passengers in various stages of somnolence, people to whom the trip was merely a means of getting somewhere else. The club car was different; this was the gathering-place of those to whom the trip was an end in itself. It was filled with the smell of ginger ale, good whiskey and the perfume emanating from two young women at one of the small tables, periodically inspecting their makeup and hairdos in little mirrors, waiting for some nice young men to arrive. Regretfully, the old man realized that he was not a candidate for the honor. But a few drinks would dull the twinges in his crippled legs and make him feel years younger. The white-coated waiter moved a chair, pulled the wheelchair up next to another small table and placed a paper napkin meticulously on it. The old man decided to start with a bottle of beer. Plenty of time to work up to the stronger stuff, and this way the minimum of pocket money his daughter-in-law had provided would last longer, perhaps until some free spender started buying drinks. As it turned out, he caught his benefactor before the girls did. It was a young man of perhaps thirty-five, a dead ringer for Marshal Wyatt Earp. He went directly to the old man's table, as if he had picked him out. As a matter of fact, he had. "May I sit here?" he asked. "Glad to have you," the old man said, and meant it. He inspected the newcomer carefully. It would be almost too good to be true, to meet one of those actor fellows on the train. No, he decided, the clothes weren't casual enough for Hollywood; they didn't look like southern California at all. More the way he imagined an English banker would dress. Striped pants, cutaway, and a white silk scarf knotted at the throat. But an Englishman, the old man figured, would order ale instead of beer, and this one simply pointed to the old man's beer bottle when the waiter came to take his order. "My name's George Murton," the old man said. "You can just call me George." "Yes, indeed," the stranger agreed. "I see we shall get on famously. Mine is Sandane." "Anybody ever tell you that you look like Wyatt Earp, Sandy?" the old man asked. "Earp? I'm afraid I've never met the gentleman." "Should have known. You're the bookish type. Prob'ly never watch television. Sure don't talk like a Westerner, either. You come from California or elsewhere?" "I come from elsewhen." * * * * *