Piecemeal, Toddles wouldn't convey anything to you to speak of. You'd have to see Toddlescoming down the aisle of a car to get him at all-and then the chances are you'd turn around afterhe'd gone by and stare at him, and it would be even money that you'd call him back and fish for adime to buy something by way of excuse. Toddles got a good deal of business that way. Toddleshad a uniform and a regular run all right, but he wasn't what he passionately longed to be-alegitimate, dyed-in-the-wool railroader. His paycheck, plus commissions, came from the NewsCompany down East that had the railroad concession. Toddles was a newsboy. In his blueuniform and silver buttons, Toddles used to stack up about the height of the back of the car seatsas he hawked his wares along the aisles; and the only thing that was big about him was his head, which looked as though it had got a whopping big lead on his body-and didn't intend to let thebody cut the lead down any. This meant a big cap, and, as Toddles used to tilt the vizor forward, the tip of his nose, bar his mouth which was generous, was about all one got of his face. Cap, buttons, magazines and peanuts, that was Toddles-all except his voice. Toddles had a voice thatwould make you jump if you were nervous the minute he opened the car door, and if you weren'tnervous you would be before he had reached the other end of the aisle-it began low downsomewhere on high G and went through you shrill as an east wind, and ended like the shriek of abrake-shoe with everything the Westinghouse equipment had to offer cutting loose on a quickst