Faultlessly,
the vehicle steeled itself for entrance into Preston sunlight. Sensibly,
there’d be no more hanging from running-boards. Intuitively, conductors guessed
who had no money. Brusquely, gaberdine men climbed aboard with brown bags of
Victoria Bitter. Squealingly, drivers ground corners; if they striked, you
walked. Quietly if children sat, they could watch comics on moving
black-and-white, back home. Demonstrably, Melbourne road rules said: Never
argue with a tram. Narrowly, Pentridge escapees missed the vehicle; there’d be
no more hanging. Stylishly, sliding doors shut out May cold; wooden louvres let
in December cool. Inevitably phased out, now it’s cute for tourists.
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