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The locomotive whistles sharply one last time as the train cars jostle abruptly and the long train begins another journey westward. Thick plumes of steam and smoke fill the wrought iron and glass ceiling of the railroad station. The pressed steel wheels make sharp squeals as they slip on the cold wintery tracks.

The crowd on the platform linger waving and bidding farewell to their loved ones. Yet through the still unmoving pockets of well-wishers, a suited man in a long coat with an oaky brown leather briefcase walks briskly and deliberately.

He makes his way to the edge of the platform and enters a full gallop. For a while making up ground, his relative speed over the accelerating train decreases with each second. One by one, the crowd begins to turn, collectively curious whether he will avoid his fate of missing the train.

Despite his meticulously polished dress shoes and wiry framed glasses, he pursues the train with the speed of a sportsman. With each step, his pant legs lift no more than an inch or two yet more than enough for the crowd, now mesmerized by this well-dressed athlete of a man, to see a spotted pair of socks.

The train now moving at quite the clip continues to pick up speed. The man, as he leaps onto the second to last train car, has yet to break a sweat.

Unaware, or deliberately ignoring the flock of eyes on him, he pulls his Fedora hat down and turns into the train car. The last anyone saw of him was his spotted socks, and his briefcase tag which, in a cursive drawl, spelled EDMUND.