Thick haze filled the small station. Hot steam from the latest train, intermingling with the sweet dew in the morning air.

Farmers ambled to and fro, carting produce and driving livestock toward the cattle-cars. The smell of hay became pungent. The wood boards creaked under the weight of fine animals.

A tall, thin man descended the train steps, valise in hand. His foreign suit was distinctly out of place in the small town station. It had been the cause for sensation ever since leaving New York.

Gripping the valise handle a little tighter, he approached the ticket-window.

Sitting in his little, gilt cage, perched on a high stool, sat the young ticket-master. The full expanse of yesterday evening's newspaper spread across his knees. He jumped when the stranger rapped his knuckles on the counter.

Pushing his cap back on his head and removing the unlit pipe in his mouth, he struck up amiably,

"Right sorry, sir. Didn't expect no strangers on the early train." The gentleman didn't answer, but his eyes kept dodging about, as if he wanted to know where everyone was at all times.

Bobby, the ticket master, stuck the pipe back in his mouth.

"Mister?"

"Hm? Oh yes. I wonder if you couldn't direct me somewhere." Bobby rolled the pipe with his fingertips.

"Like as not. We're a pretty small town." The man's distinct accent made Bobby cautious. "Where'd ya want to go?"

"I would like directions to the Pettigrew farm." Bobby narrowed his eyes.

"You know 'em?"

"An old friend of Tully's."

"Tully?"

"Yes, we fought together in Africa and- well, let Africa suffice." Bobby snapped upright on his stool.

"Say, you weren't in his range unit?"

"Lieutenant Moffitt, at your service."

Bobby snapped to attention.

"Private Divvers, sir!" Moffitt laughed.

"At ease, private. I'm currently inactive."

"Good to know, sir." Bobby perched on the edge of his stool.

"It's an honor to meet a commando, like yourself, sir."

"Has Tully been telling tales?" He smiled. Bobby scratched his head under the dusty, blue cap.

"Truth be told, Tully doesn't really talk about his time in uniform." He screwed his cap back on and shrugged. Can't say as I blame him. I don't either." The talkative boy suddenly clammed up.

A short pause hung in the air like the dust from the recent animals. He cleared his throat.

"So you're headed to the Pettigrew farm? An' I reckon you'll want to get there before nightfall."

"Is it that far?"

"They're a good stretch o' land aways, up in the hills. By buggy it'll take ya till afternoon." Moffitt deflated a little.

"As in 'Horse and Buggy'? I rather hoped I'd left those in the English countryside."

"We're a small town, LT. The Industrial Age forgot to stop by this corner of Kentucky." The boy gave a toothy grin.

"Well, do you know where I might find a buggy to rent?"

Bobby rubbed his chin a moment; and snapped his fingers.

"I reckon you'll be here awhile, why not borrow my car? She's no flyer," he rushed to explain, "but she'll do the trick."

"Oh, I couldn't-" Too late. The young man was already off his stool and reaching for the door to his workspace.

"Ain't nothin' sayin' ya can't. I insist." Moffitt switched hands with his valise and went to hold the door for his new acquaintance.

"As long as it's no bother." Bobby limped out of the closet, leaning on a cane. He caught the surprise in Moffitt's eye.

"Purple heart. Happens to the best of us." He shrugged it off, and limped to the edge of the station platform. Moffitt went to stand by his side.

With his free hand, Bobby Divvers pointed out the route while he explained it. When he'd explained as well as he could, Bobby dug one hand into his pocket.

"That's my car, sitting over there. The deep blue. Uh-huh, that's the one, LT." He fished out the key and tossed it into Moffitt's hand.

"Don't be in a rush to return 'er, either. Keep 'er as long as ya please."

Moffitt stepped off the platform and Bobby called after,

"Tell Mrs Pettigrew hello from me!"