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Weekly Contest #300
He was three when he ran away. Not because he didn't like his home but because he liked trains more. He could tell the time and knew the express train left for the seaside at 9.30am sharp every morning. When his mother was busy he furiously peddled his tricycle to the station. He arrived to hear the big engine puffing and hissing, eager to leave. The station master and the driver were laughing together by the ticket office. People filled the platform, the passengers in warm coats and hats with their lunches in paper bags. He went and sat on ...
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