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.