 I traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake, one of the hands on my father's old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going west to work for my grandfather. We went all the way in day coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Beyond Chicago, we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence.