As he drank a second Johnny Walker and ordered a rump steak well done, with a side order of fried potatoes, and a bottle of a half decent claret, Edward Fitzgerald watched the countryside around the southern prospect of Des Moines pass by at an increasingly quickening pace as the driver of the awesome black and green locomotive released more speed for the long run down into St Louis.

With dinner finished, and a very large brandy in his hand, Edward contemplated with relish the small wooden guest house in Memphis (a city the long snaking train should reach by breakfast time) he’d discovered some years ago, and the very accommodating, slightly overweight, yet very agreeable landlady who only took to her bed for two reasons.

And there was a fine manufacturer of cane furniture in Memphis too who might just be looking for a good salesman?

Ah, thought Edward - as he dozed off - life might just be picking up.