HEROES: Father

A train chuffed southeastward, from the Caribbean shore toward the Pacific. In it, crossing the Isthmus of Panama, sat a quiet erect gentleman of 73. No one had paid much attention to him when he left his ship at Cristobal, but along the railway, at various stops, men who had worked 20 years or more in the Canal Zone, looked at him intently, approached, looked again to make sure, and then said, with great respect: "Mr. Stevens, isn't it?" Or, "I don't s'pose you remember me, Mr. Stevens, but I'm. . ....

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