Gary Raymond, Bob Uniack and I immediately marked our calendars for a trip north to visit Young Richard. Then I called Don M. Scott, Railroad Man.

"Yeah, maybe," he answered when I asked whether he would like to join us. He was equally enthusiastic about the chances of his being free on the day we had chosen. He graciously informed me, "I'll see how it looks and let you know later."

At 9:30 a.m. on the Big Day, the telephone rang. It was the Railroad Man with a characteristically cheerful greeting: "You comin' or what?"

That, of course, was his way of announcing he would deign to accompany us on the two hour drive up to Lompoc. Moreover, he intended to drive. He had three reasons: First, the Railroad Man is the only one of us with a van; specifically, the now illustrious white Pontiac TransSport. (You may remember it resembles a Dustbuster with a 700 megawatt sound system and has served us well on previous adventures.) Second, no matter what the circumstance, he always drives and had no intention of breaking tradition. Finally, as long as he is behind the wheel, we have to do whatever he wants.

And the first thing the Railroad Man wanted, after Bob, Gary, and I had arrived at his office and climbed into the TransSport, was to drive to Santa Barbara for lunch. As you must know by now, the Railroad Man has an unerring sixth sense about all matters culinary and, as usual, he knew just the place: The Silver Weasel or some such establishment, a mild yuppie fern bar; memory fails. For our reading pleasure on the drive up, he proffered the catalog from a company specializing in realistic plastic body parts for medical and legal applications. Its lavish full color illustrations were just what we needed to whet the appetite for lunch.

The four of us stumbled from the TransSport into the restaurant's entry hall and flamboyantly announced our arrival. Our collective wardrobe consisted of a kaleidoscopic assortment of Levis and loose fitting cotton trousers, knit shirts and loud Hawaiian attire, garish athletic shoes, visored caps (some featuring embroidered railroad emblems) and, in two cases, beards. Unfortunately, the Silver Weasel's management was shooting a television commercial concurrent with our arrival. It occurred to the director that it might be in the restaurant's best interest for the photographer to stop taping immediately lest potential guests receive the wrong idea about their patrons' appearance.

To add insult to injury, they also sat us at an inconspicuous table.

It may have been the Railroad Man who first uttered the word "revenge". Either way, the volume of our conversation seemed to rise and fall in direct relation to the proximity of camera and microphone, as did the degree of animation and gesticulation. If you happen to see a Silver Weasel commercial on television and, in the background, notice somebody wearing a railroad hat laughing hysterically, making a funny face, or avoiding a flying a potato, we emphatically deny any complicity.

As we prepared to leave, the Railroad Man plucked the hat from his head, thrust it in the air, waved it exuberantly, and cried, "Heigh ho, fellow patrons, I am the Railroad Man and we now proceed in search of the Cypress Creek Lumber Company!" The diners cheered and clapped but, for some reason, our waitress sat down and sighed with relief.

The pause for lunch had put us only one hour behind schedule. The Railroad Man's insistence on stopping at Mike's Trains and Hobbies in downtown Lompoc cost us the other. Mike and his wife had been enjoying a quiet and uneventful day prior to the moment we burst in. Gary and Bob busied themselves at the magazine rack. The Railroad Man found it necessary to scrutinize every Lionel O scale model train the store. Then I noticed he had zeroed in on a three-rail Western Maryland Shay so I prepared to enjoy the inevitable bargaining session. It went on half an hour longer than I anticipated so I called Young Richard to apologize for our delay.

By the time I had hung up the telephone, Mike's wife was wrapping the Shay, the Railroad Man's countenance shone with a gleeful expression of triumph, and he whispered something about making a another remarkable deal. But as we left the store, I heard Mike stifle a giggle and saw his wife jumping up and down.

Five minutes later, we arrived at the domicile of Young Richard From The North. He had met Bob and Gary in June, when we shot the photos of his layout, but apparently was unprepared for the formidable presence of the Railroad Man. Nonetheless, he quickly recomposed himself, politely ushered us into his combination workshop and layout room, explained the function of every tool, and elucidated upon the fine points of each exquisite model and casting he had created. For the next two hours, the five of us talked about plans, models, construction techniques, fabricating and casting metal parts, kit manufacturing, and the Railroad Man's new Shay.

For about twenty-five minutes, the Railroad Man had been scrutinizing Young Richard's layout diorama but, at 5:30 sharp, he turned around and declared, "I'm starving. It's time for dinner. You guys ready?"

In recognition of the Railroad Man's unerring sixth sense, we drove to a restaurant and ate.

After dinner, we returned for a final look at Young Richard's modeling. His wife had come home from work. We stood on the driveway and Young Richard introduced her. The Railroad Man shook her hand. Then, suddenly, he began to hop, skip, and bellow uncontrollably, scurried into the house, burst out with the new Lionel Western Maryland Shay in his hands, and fell to his knees.

Young Richard's wife edged backward and began to tremble. Her husband vigilantly shielded her, Bob and Gary ducked back into the workshop and, as the Railroad Man's noises and gesticulations become more frenetic, I stifled a yawn. Young Richard ran inside to call for an ambulance and his wife gaped in incredulity as the Railroad Man jumped back to his feet and vaulted onto the lawn shrieking, "Al Akhbar! I have found the lost Shay!" He wrenched a seventy-five year old vial of sacramental kerosene from the Official Sacred Fanny Pack, impatiently scattered a couple of drops here and there, and paid enthusiastic tribute to the sacred gods of steam by performing the secret railroad dance. He leaped madly about, utterly humiliating Gary, Bob, and me and leaving Young Richard, his wife, and a handful of bewildered neighbors reeling in stunned disbelief.

Eventually, the Railroad Man calmed down enough to return to the van. Young Richard was visibly shaken and his wife's expression had frozen into a vacant stare. Their farewell wave seemed very tentative as the Railroad Man edged the TransSport into the street.

We headed out of town. Bob said, "Gee, whiz!" then asked, "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" asked the Railroad Man. "Oh, the sacred railroad dance? For some reason, the realization of buying that Shay just hit me at that moment. I guess it was delayed stress syndrome."

And as the white Pontiac TransSport accelerated up the freeway on-ramp, he hummed a cheerful Calypso work tune over the fading echo of an ambulance siren.