Me and Shorty Jim pulled into Mt. Pleasant on the Burlington about three in the morning.  It was flat January, needle snow blowing cold enough to freeze your words right to your tongue so you had reach up and break ’em off to say anything. Usually we don’t go near a station, but it was that or die in the blizzard. In big cities like Chi, us road Joes ain’t welcome indoors, but little towns tend to be a might more friendly, especially when it’s life and death like it was that night. Stationmaster had that potbellied stove glowing red.