The Fourth R | Page 8

a ten was minor; a larger tip would not have
provided him with better service, because the train crew were happy to keep an eye on
the adventurous youngster for his own small sake. Their mild resentment against the
small tip was directed against the boy's father, not the young passenger himself.
He had one problem. The train was hardly out of the station before everybody on it knew
that there was a five-year-old making a trip all by himself. Of course, he was not to be
bothered, but everybody wanted to talk to him, to ask him how he was, to chatter
endlessly at him. Jimmy did not want to talk. His experience in addressing adults was
exasperating. That he spoke lucid English instead of babygab did not compel a rational
response. Those who heard him speak made over him with the same effusive superiority
that they used in applauding a golden-haired tot in high heels and a strapless evening
gown sitting on a piano and singing, Why Was I Born? in a piping, uncertain-toned voice.
It infuriated him.
So he immersed himself in his comic books. He gave his name politely every five
minutes for the first fifty miles. He turned down offers of candy with, "Mommy says I
mustn't before supper." And when dinnertime came he allowed himself to be escorted
through the train by the conductor, because Jimmy knew that he couldn't handle the doors
without help.
The steward placed a menu in front of him, and then asked carefully, "How much money
do you want to spend, young man?"
Jimmy had the contents of his father's cashbox pinned to the inside of his shirt, and a
five-dollar bill folded in a snap-top purse with some change in his shirt pocket. He could
add with the best of them, but he did not want any more attention than he was absolutely
forced to attract. So he fished out the snap-top purse and opened it to show the steward
his five-dollar bill. The steward relaxed; he'd had a moment of apprehension that Holden
Senior might have slipped the kid a half-dollar for dinner. (The steward had received a
quarter for his share of the original two-fifty.)
Jimmy looked at the "Child's Dinner" menu and pointed out a plate: lamb chop and
mashed potatoes. After that, dinner progressed without incident. Jimmy topped it off with
a dish of ice cream.
The steward made change. Jimmy watched him carefully, and then said, "Daddy says I'm
supposed to give you a tip. How much?"
The steward looked down, wondering how he could explain the standard dining car tip of
fifteen or twenty percent of the bill. He took a swallow of air and picked out a quarter.
"This will do nicely," he said and went off thankful that all people do not ask waiters how

much they think they deserve for the service rendered.
Thus Jimmy Holden arrived in Roundtree and was observed and convoyed--but not
bothered--off the train.
It is deplorable that adults are not as friendly and helpful to one another as they are to
children; it might make for a more pleasant world. As Jimmy walked along the station
platform at Roundtree, one of his former fellow-passengers walked beside him. "Where
are you going, young man? Someone going to meet you, of course?"
"No, sir," said Jimmy. "I'm supposed to take a cab--"
"I'm going your way, why not ride along with me?"
"Sure it's all right?"
"Sure thing. Come along." Jimmy never knew that this man felt good for a week after
he'd done his good turn for the year.
His grandfather opened the door and looked down at him in complete surprise. "Why,
Jimmy! What are you doing here? Who brought--"
His grandmother interrupted, "Come in! Come in! Don't just stand there with the door
open!"
Grandfather closed the door firmly, grandmother knelt and folded Jimmy in her arms and
crooned over him, "You poor darling. You brave little fellow. Donald," she said firmly to
her husband, "go get a glass of warm milk and some cookies." She led Jimmy to the
old-fashioned parlor and seated him on the sofa. "Now, Jimmy, you relax a moment and
then you can tell me what happened."
Jimmy sighed and looked around. The house was old, and comfortably sturdy. It gave
him a sense of refuge, of having reached a safe haven at last. The house was over-warm,
and there was a musty smell of over-aged furniture, old leather, and the pungence of
mothballs. It seemed to generate a feeling of firm stability. Even the slightly stale
air--there probably hadn't been a wide open window since the storm sashes were installed
last autumn--provided a locked-in feeling that conversely meant that the world was
locked out.
Grandfather brought in the