They elope

Long ago when drought and unemployment darkened America, a youthful Minnesota electrical engineer and cornetist eloped with a small town college girl and joined a vaudeville troupe in Kansas City.  After several performances, the troupe set off on an eastwardly-bound train, doing one night stands along the way.   By the time the train pulled into Pennsylvania Station, the bride was pregnant with me and the groom entertaining doubts about whether or not show business was an appropriate profession for a young father.  They settled in Brooklyn and I was born on Navy day.

Train story

When the train slowed to a stop, a passenger door opened and a man with a baby in his arms boarded.  After a minute or so, the door closed and the train moved quietly out of the station and on to the next station, a village 10 miles away.  At that station, the passenger with the baby realized the baby was gone from his arms.  He looked under seats, queried the few passengers in the car, before bolting out the car door and onto the station platform.  He heard distant baby cries, garbled, as if they were from the cornices and ledges of the waiting room.  A woman offered to help find the baby, but the cries became more faint until they disappeared.  The man collapsed to the floor, screaming inconsolable gibberish.