rdking.net

It is a story that has stayed with me, that has gone through forty years and remained what it originally was—an incident in my life, and then a curious repetition, me being a happenstance observer, a listless character in a nearby seat neither fortunate nor distressed for having to witness or be witnessed. I can distinctly recall its every detail, at any moment and from any part, without interest or disdain. I have had what seems like an endless conversation that has cued it to mind. The faces change. The trains change. The games change. It has become a child's book to me. The kind where each page has three pieces and can be turned so any page will suit the child's mood. Yet I rarely speak of it, being no likely consort with destiny.

I was on the 7:20 to St. Louis, reading the Tribune and scratching the growth on my jowls. There I would make a grain deal that would put me in a position to make an intimidating amount of money (although some years later). My father called it a daring chance and was harsh about my leaving Chicago, but for myself I was hoping for a decent sum to settle down and marry. Yet that is not part of the story, only the setting. What seemed out of context was my attraction to the three children in the seats opposite me. Apparently my interest was obvious to them and after setting up the game board they asked if I should like to play. I declined and reshuffled my paper. Still, it was evident that the older boy had chosen the cannon for his marker, the girl took the thimble and the youngest settled for the speedster. All were place on GO and they tossed the dice to see who should move first; the older boy rolling nine, the girl five, and the young lad proceeded to roll eight in doubles, then ten in doubles, then eight again, then twelve, then four, then ten and ten again, then eight again, and ended by rolling eleven. A sum total of eighty-one which I could scarcely accept. Yet the two other children conceded without protest or even chagrin on their faces.

Meanwhile, as all this took place, still another child looked on to the game from the seat behind them. His eyes staying always above the back of the seat while his mouth bobbed up, and then down out of sight, coming up again with crumbs at the edges and looking meekly in need of milk. His mother, a rather stern-seeming woman, from time to time chanting—"Sit down, Thomas. You must not be rude."