The engine is on, running quietly at idle, the driver checking some mysterious timetable. The back door is open. The tram on the other side of the big square releases the first gush of passengers who disperse in frantic runs to the five or six busses available at this big junction. No one knows when the unoiled squeaky doors will shut and the roaring engine disappear behind those few bare trees, the snake-like tram, that building, the curving road. Another load and they all make it, their faces beaming in the rosy twilight. Then another, which to those on the bus seems like they won’t make it – it’s been almost half an hour. But they do and get on!, right before the next stream of folks who see the tram approaching and they’re on it, its doors opening and the bus’ closing, driving off, mechanically indifferent to the last rush.