Barry Locke, half-back

How it begins

Barry didn’t wait for the conductor’s announcement. He was at the car door before the little Connecticut village came into sight. There was a glimpse of South Street, shaded, asleep in the afternoon sunshine, and then the freight-shed interposed a blank yellow countenance. Barry shifted the light overcoat on his arm—he had wanted to put it in the trunk, but his mother, suspicious of September in the hills, had overruled him—and picked up his suit-case just as the conductor bawled past him, into the hot, dusty interior: The station threw a welcome shadow and the train stopped. Barry descended, his brown eyes alight, a smile, slightly shy, already curving his lips.