The taxi arrived. The luggage was tossed in. The boys scrambled into the back seat. Aunt Gertrude shrieked “Goodbye” a dozen times and sobbed audibly. Their mother waved a handkerchief. Jadbury Wilson brandished his cane. Then, with a roar, the taxi sped down the street and headed toward the station. Already the boys could hear the long-drawn whistle of the train.
“Off for Montana!” exclaimed Frank.
“I’m afraid of only one thing,” remarked his brother.
“What’s that?”
“I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find I’ve been dreaming.”
VII
In the Windy City
The Hardy boys had never been on a long train journey before, and the trip, consequently, was replete with interest for them. As the train left Bayport behind and began speeding through the open country with its snow-covered fields, they felt a sense of elation and freedom.
“This is certainly better than school!” declared Joe, settling back in his seat with a sigh of contentment.
“Sure is. Chet Morton and the rest of the gang will be just about sick with envy when they hear where we’ve gone.”
“I wish we could have them with us. When do we reach Chicago?”
“Some time tomorrow. Won’t it be dandy to stay on the train all night!”
They watched the scenery that seemed to flash past as though on a moving scroll until gradually twilight fell and the lights in the Pullman were turned on. They went into the dining car, where they were served by a massive negro with an air of elaborate courtesy. The novelty of eating an excellent and perfectly served dinner while speeding swiftly across country appealed to them, and when they had finally risen to their feet and left a tip for the waiter, Joe was of the opinion that he could imagine nothing better than living this way all the time.
“When I grow up, if I have money enough, I’ll just live on the trains,” he said solemnly.
“You’d soon get tired of it.”
“Not me!” And not until the novelty of the long journey began to wear off did Joe admit to himself that possibly such an existence might be wearisome in the long run.
They slept the sound slumber of healthy youth and were up early next morning for the first breakfast call. There, at their table with its immaculate linen and gleaming silverware, they did justice to crisp bacon and golden eggs, the meanwhile looking out the wide windows at the murky chimneys and dark masses of factory buildings as the train entered the outskirts of a large city. The train roared across viaducts and they could see trolleys and automobiles speeding to and fro in the city streets in bewildering confusion. For the first time they began to have some appreciation of the real extent of their country.
“I guess Bayport isn’t the only city in the States,” said Frank, with a smile.
“It looks pretty small compared to some of these that we’ve gone through.”
But as the morning passed they wearied at last of looking at the scenery, varied as it was, and toward mid-afternoon they began to be impatient for a sight of Chicago. When, at last, the train began to roar through the suburbs of the Windy City, as a friendly porter called it when they had failed to understand his reference to it as “Chi,” they felt a mounting excitement. But the train rushed in past seemingly endless rows of houses, then past miles of industrial buildings overhung with a cloud of murky smoke, until they thought the center of the city would never be reached.
The journey came finally to an end. Their porter was on the platform with their grips, they tipped him for his services during the trip and made their way down the crowded pavement, through the gates into the concourse of the enormous station. Here they gazed about in frank wonderment at the bustling hordes of people, all intent on their own affairs, moving to and from the trains. The constant sound of shuffling feet, buzzing voices, clanging bells, all the varied noises of a great railway station, sounded like the roar of the ocean in their ears.
They made their way outside and clambered into a waiting taxi, directing the driver to take them to the hotel their father had mentioned in his telegram. In a short time the car drew up at the entrance, after a brief ride through crowded, noisy streets that made the main street of Bayport seem like a country lane on Sunday afternoon by comparison. A bellboy seized their grips and the boys presented themselves at the desk.
The clerk glanced at their names after they had signed.
“Ah, yes!” he said. “Frank and Joe Hardy. Your room has been reserved for you. And there is also a letter, I believe.” He reached into a pigeonhole in a compartment near by and produced a letter which he tossed over to them. He struck a bell smartly. “Front! Show these gentlemen to 845.”
Feeling highly important at being referred to as “gentlemen” and at having a bedroom actually reserved for them in a hotel of such grandeur, the Hardy boys followed a military-looking bellboy to the elevators, whence followed a swift ascent to the eighth floor. Then down wide, silent corridors to their room, a substantial, bright and airy room with bath. It
