His voice rose in shrill tones, he waved his
hands.
Then began a scene that was delightful to watch. The conductor was
magnificently tactful. He ought to have been an ambassador (in fact,
he reminded us of one ambassador, for his trim and slender figure,
his tawny, drooping moustache, the gentle and serene tact of his
bearing, were very like Mr. Henry van Dyke). He allowed the
protestant to exhaust himself with reproaches, and then he began an
affectionate little sermon, tender, sympathetic, but firm.
"I thought this train stopped at Newark," the fat man kept on
saying.
"You mustn't think, you must _know_," said the conductor, gazing
shrewdly at him above the rims of his demi-lune spectacles. "Now,
why did you get on a train without making sure where it stopped? You
heard the brakeman say: 'Newark and Philadelphia'? No; he said
'North Philadelphia.' Yes, I know you were in a hurry, but that
wasn't our fault, was it? Now, let me tell you something: I've been
working for this company for twenty-five years...."
Unhappily the noise of the train prevented us from hearing the
remark that followed. We were remembering a Chinese translation that
we made once. It went something like this:
A SUSPICIOUS NATURE
_Whenever I travel
I ask at least three train-men
If this is the right train
For where I am going,
Even then
I hardly believe them.
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