Clarence was the slowest train on the whole line.
Every morning, the express trains whooshed past him so fast his windows rattled. WHOOOOSH! His paint shook. His bolts wiggled. His little red caboose swayed side to side.
"Out of the way, Slow Poke!" called the Silver Arrow, sleek and shiny.
"Coming through, Clunky!" hollered the Midnight Bullet, long and dark.
Clarence just kept going. Chugga-chugga-chugga-chug. Chugga-chugga-chugga-chug.
Because Clarence stopped at every single station.
First came Mossy Bridge, where the platform was soft and green and smelled like rain. A girl named Pip waited there every morning with her grandpa. She always had a peanut butter sandwich, and she always broke off a corner and set it on Clarence's front step.
"Morning, Clarence!" she'd say.
"Morning, Pip!" his conductor would call back.
Chugga-chugga-chugga-chug.
Then came Windhill, way up high, where the sky got close and the clouds blew right through the open doors. An old man named Arlo played his fiddle on the platform. Every time Clarence pulled in, Arlo played him a little song — just eight notes, quick and sweet. The passengers would tap their feet while they climbed aboard.
Nobody tapped their feet on the Silver Arrow.
Chugga-chugga-chugga-chug.
Then came Puddleton, which was always — ALWAYS — muddy. Clarence's wheels got brown and splattered every single time. He'd roll in looking clean and roll out looking like a chocolate cake. The kids at Puddleton loved it. They'd cheer when the mud sprayed up. "AGAIN! AGAIN!"
Clarence didn't mind the mud one bit.
One cold Tuesday, something happened. The Silver Arrow broke down. Just — stopped. Right on the main track, between Windhill and Puddleton, with lots of passengers inside and no way to move.
The Midnight Bullet couldn't help. Too wide to fit on Clarence's little side track.
The dispatcher's radio crackled. "Clarence? You there?"
Chugga-chugga-chugga-chug. He was already on his way.
Clarence pulled up behind the Silver Arrow. The Silver Arrow's passengers peered out their windows. They looked cold. They looked grumpy. A little boy in the back had been crying.
Clarence's conductor opened every door. "Hop on over, folks. We've got room."
One by one, the passengers climbed from the Silver Arrow into Clarence. His old seats creaked. His heater hummed and clicked. It was warm inside. It smelled a little like peanut butter.
The little boy stopped crying.
Now here's the thing. Clarence knew the tracks better than anyone. He knew that after Puddleton there was a sharp left turn where you had to slow down or your tea would spill. He knew that before Lakeside the rails dipped and your tummy went funny — the good kind of funny. He knew the platform at every stop, and the name of every person standing on it.
So when Clarence pulled into Mossy Bridge, Pip looked up and saw twice as many faces in his windows as usual.
"Clarence!" she laughed. "You're FULL!"
He was. Full to the brim. People standing in the aisles, holding the straps, bumping elbows, sharing seats. Someone had started humming Arlo's eight-note song, and now half the train was humming it too.
Clarence rolled on through the afternoon. Chugga-chugga-chugga-chug. Brown mud on his wheels. A peanut butter crumb on his front step. Every seat taken. Every window glowing.
The Silver Arrow sat quiet and dark on the tracks behind him.
But Clarence didn't look back.
He had six more stations to go, and he knew every one by name.
Chugga-chugga-chugga-chug.
Chugga-chugga-chugga-chug.
