On the station platform everyone shook the young man’s hand.  More than a dozen people waited about.  Then they talked of their own affairs.  Even Will Henderson, who was lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of bed.  George was embarrassed.  Gertrude Wilmot, a tall thin woman of fifty who worked in the Winesburg post office, came along the station platform.  She had never before paid any attention to George.  Now she stopped and put out her hand.  In two words she voiced what everyone felt.  “Good luck,” she said sharply and then turning went on her way.

When the train came into the station George felt relieved.  He scampered hurriedly aboard.  Helen White came running along Main Street hoping to have a parting word with him, but he had found a seat and did not see her.  When the train started Tom Little punched his ticket, grinned and, although he knew George well and knew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no comment.  Tom had seen a thousand George Willards go out of their towns to the city.  It was a commonplace enough incident with him.  In the smoking car there was a man who had just invited Tom to go on a fishing trip to Sandusky Bay.  He wanted to accept the invitation and talk over details.

George glanced up and down the car to be sure no one was looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted his money.  His mind was occupied with a desire not to appear green.  Almost the last words his father had said to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got to the city.  “Be a sharp one,” Tom Willard had said.  “Keep your eyes on your money.  Be awake.  That’s the ticket.  Don’t let anyone think you’re a greenhorn.”

After George counted his money he looked out of the window and was surprised to see that the train was still in Winesburg.

The young man, going out of his town to meet the adventure of life, began to think but he did not think of anything very big or dramatic.  Things like his mother’s death, his departure from Winesburg, the uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious and larger aspects of his life did not come into his mind.

He thought of little things—­Turk Smollet wheeling boards through the main street of his town in the morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once stayed overnight at his father’s hotel, Butch Wheeler the lamp lighter of Winesburg hurrying through the streets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his hand, Helen White standing by a window in the Winesburg post office and putting a stamp on an envelope.

The young man’s mind was carried away by his growing passion for dreams.  One looking at him would not have thought him particularly sharp.  With the recollection of little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes and leaned back in the car seat.  He stayed that way for a long time and when he aroused himself and again looked out of the car window the town of Winesburg had disappeared and his life there had become but a background on which to paint the dreams of his manhood.