SITTING close beside the window in his compartment of the Limited, Richard Polland saw the scattered shacks with vegetable gardens surrounding them, then some bungalows of a more pretentious sort, then streets with rows and rows of cottages constructed after the same architectural pattern—the sort built to sell for so much down and so much a month.
All this meant, of course, that the train was getting into the city. There were manufacturing enterprises near the tracks, and junk yards and sidings and switches. The houses were closer together now, too, and older. Polland saw the first street-car track, and then the first paved street. A few minutes more, and the train would pull into the suburban station.
Richard Polland long ago had decided to get off at the suburban station. Perhaps, he
