Timmy Lindahl hung around the Amery Depot every day, especially in the summer. The father of my Cousin Jimmy, the ten-year-old lived by his wits and grabbed opportunities as they came up.
Late in the 1930s, the train from St. Paul braked to a stop at the depot one hot July day. A man in a suit stepped out, looked around, and called Timmy over.
“I’ve got some business to take care of in the depot. Where can a guy get a sandwich around here?”
Timmy pointed to the Amery Hotel across the park, telling him that they had sandwiches for a quarter at the café.
“Here. Two quarters. Get a meat sandwich for me and get yourself one. Okay?”
Timmy agreed, and headed away.
A few minutes later Timmy walked up, eating a sandwich. The man looked confused, seeing nothing in his other hand.
“Where’s my sandwich?”
Timmy said, “They only had one.” Took another bite of his roast beef sandwich.
“Here’s your quarter back, Mr.”
The train began pulling away from the station.