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the wives. The age level being what it was, though, there must be a fair percentage of widows and widowers, along with those few who’d never married at all. He wasn’t too sanguine about his own chances of getting them sorted out in time to spot an odd one. Marcia Whet was not going to help him much. He’d have to forgo her amiable company and attach himself to somebody who could see past her lorgnette.
    That should be feasible. Now that they knew who Max was, or thought they did, even the men were friendly enough. The one he’d recognized as Durward kept leaning across the aisle to chat, squinting amiably up at him through those bottle-bottom spectacles. The hitch there was that Durward had mistaken Max for a tenor named Ernest who used to sing madrigals with him, whereas Max was a baritone who sang things like “They’re hanging Danny Deever in the morning,” and then only when he was shaving or putting on his socks. Durward was clearly another lost cause.
    Obed Ogham could be scratched at the post, naturally. He was making a great point of not noticing Jeremy Kelling’s nephew, though sneaking frequent glances to make sure Max realized he was being ignored. Max wondered how many of the others wished they could be ignored, too. Ogham was the sort of man who backs people into corners and shouts funny stories at them regardless of their protests that they’ve already heard the jokes and didn’t think they were any good the first time. Max felt a glow of family pride at Jeremy Kelling’s taste and discrimination in being on the outs with Ogham, as well as a sense of relief at being exempt from getting pounded at by that loud, arrogant voice.
    The bus ride seemed to be taking one hell of a long time, although Max’s watch told him it wasn’t. He was relieved when at last they turned off the road, up a well-plowed private drive. For perhaps an eighth of a mile he saw only snow-covered trees, then an expanse of clear snow that must be lawn. Then everybody began exclaiming, “There it is! There’s the train.”
    And there it was, dwarfed by the vast mansion on the hill behind it but ablaze with light, sitting self-importantly on its loop of track outside a miniature station festooned with Christmas greens. Beside the step, a lavishly uniformed conductor made great play with a nickel-plated stem-winder watch and yelled, “Boo-ard! All aboard. Step lively, please.”
    That was Tom Tolbathy, their host. His wife stood inside the parlor car, greeting each guest as they climbed up. Mrs. Tolbathy was doing a marvelous imitation of Margaret Dumont, Max thought, wearing silver lace over a straight-front corset, with white kid gloves up to her armpits and strings of pearls down to her knees. She didn’t seem to be having any difficulty figuring out who was who despite the mustaches, though she did look the merest trifle nonplussed when Max Bittersohn took off his top hat and made his bow.
    “This is Jeremy Kelling’s nephew Max, Hester,” Marcia Whet explained for about the fifteenth time so far. “Poor Jem broke his hip last night, so he dragooned Max into being my escort.”
    “How dreadful,” said Hester Tolbathy. “Not you, Max. I may call you that, mayn’t I? You were a darling to pitch in, and we’re delighted to have you aboard. Which branch of the Kellings do you perch on?”
    Max started to explain that he was only a graft, but just then Tom Tolbathy boosted old Mr. Wripp up on the steps, so Hester had to turn and inquire about all the eldest Comrade’s ailments, from the cataracts in his eyes to the gout in his toes. That was clearly going to take a while, so Max let himself be swept on with Marcia Whet through the parlor car, with its ornate gilt and crimson damask decor, into what might once have been a coal tender. This was now converted into a sort of utility area, with a brass and mahogany coat rack along the wall and a potbellied stove in the middle throwing an almost insufferable amount of