The Fourth R | Page 7

with
makeup that their nature can't be seen at all. They bark place-names at you, or ask
pleasantly about the cost of round-trip versus one-way tickets to Chicago or East Burlap.
You deal with them and then you wait for the next.
Then one afternoon, about four o'clock, a face barely visible over the edge of the marble
counter looks up at you with a boy's cheerful freckled smile. You have to stand up in
order to see him. You smile, and he grins at you. Among his belongings is a little leather
suitcase, kid's size, but not a toy. He is standing on it. Under his arm is a collection of
comic books, in one small fist is the remains of a candy bar and in the other the string of
a floating balloon.
"Well, young man, where to? Paris? London? Maybe Mars?"
"No, sir," comes the piping voice, "Roun-tree."
"Roundtree? Yes, I've heard of that metropolis," you reply. You look over his head, there
aren't any other customers in line behind him so you don't mind passing the time of day.
"Round-trip or one-way?"
"One-way," comes the quick reply.
This brings you to a slow stop. He does not giggle nor prattle, nor launch into a long and
involved explanation with halting, dependent clauses. This one knows what he wants and
how to ask for it. Quite a little man!
"How old are you, young fellow?"
"I was five years old yesterday."
"What's your name?"
"I'm James Holden."
The name does not ring any bells--because the morning newspaper is purchased for its
comic strips, the bridge column, the crossword puzzle, and the latest dope on love-nest
slayings, peccadilloes of the famous, the cheesecake photo of the inevitable
actress-leaving-for-somewhere, and the full page photograph of the latest

death-on-the-highway debacle. You look at the picture but you don't read the names in
the caption, so you don't recognize the name, and you haven't been out of your little cage
since lunchtime and Jimmy Holden was not missing then. So you go on:
"So you're going to go to Roundtree."
"Yessir."
"That costs a lot of money, young Mister Holden."
"Yessir." Then this young man hands you an envelope; the cover says, typewritten: Ticket
Clerk, Midland Railroad.
A bit puzzled, you open the envelope and find a five-dollar bill folded in a sheet of
manuscript paper. The note says:
Ticket Clerk Midland Railroad Dear Sir:
This will introduce my son, James Holden. As a birthday present, I am sending him for a
visit to his grandparents in Roundtree, and to make the adventure complete, he will travel
alone. Pass the word along to keep an eye on him but don't step in unless he gets into
trouble. Ask the dining car steward to see that he eats dinner on something better than
candy bars.
Otherwise, he is to believe that he is making this trip completely on his own.
Sincerely, Louis Holden.
PS: Divide the change from this five dollars among you as tips. L.H.
And so you look down at young Mister Holden and get a feeling of vicarious pleasure.
You stamp his ticket and hand it to him with a gesture. You point out the train-gate he is
to go through, and you tell him that he is to sit in the third railroad car. As he leaves, you
pick up the telephone and call the station-master, the conductor, and since you can't get
the dining-car steward directly, you charge the conductor with passing the word along.
Then you divide the change. Of the two-fifty, you extract a dollar, feeling that the Senior
Holden is a cheapskate. You slip the other buck and a half into an envelope, ready for the
conductor's hand. He'll think Holden Senior is more of a cheapskate, and by the time he
extracts his cut, the dining car steward will know that Holden Senior is a cheapskate.
But--
Then a face appears at your window and barks, "Holyoke, Mass.," and your normal day
falls back into shape.
The response of the people you tell about it varies all the way from outrage that anybody
would let a kid of five go alone on such a dangerous mission to loud bragging that he, too,
once went on such a journey, at four and a half, and didn't need a note.

But Jimmy Holden is gone from your window, and you won't know for at least another
day that you've been suckered by a note painstakingly typewritten, letter by letter, by a
five-year-old boy who has a most remarkable vocabulary.
Jimmy's trip to Roundtree was without incident. Actually, it was easy once he had
hurdled the ticket-seller with his forged note and the five-dollar bill from the cashbox in
his father's desk. His error in not making it