We never
saw any one show less enthusiasm for the scenery. The train flashed
busily along through the level green meadows, which blended exactly
with the green plush of the seats, but our friend was lost in a
gruesome trance. Even his cigar (long since gone out) was still,
save for an occasional quiver.
The conductor came to our seat, looking, good man, faintly stern and
sad, like a good parent who has had, regretfully, to chastise an
erring urchin.
"Well," we said, "the next time that chap gets on a train he'll take
care to find out where it stops."
The conductor smiled, but a humane, understanding smile. "I try to
be fair with 'em," he said.
"I think you were a wonder," we said.
By the time we reached North Philadelphia the soothing hand of Time
had exerted some of its consolation. The stout man wore a faintly
sheepish smile as he rose to escape. The brakeman was in the
vestibule. He, younger than the conductor, was no less kind, but we
would hazard that he is not quite as resigned to mortal error and
distress. He spoke genially, but there was a note of honest rebuke
in his farewell.
"The next time you get on a train," he said, "watch your stop."
[Illustration]
OUR TRICOLOUR TIE
We went up to the composing room just now to consult our privy
counsellor, Peter Augsberger, the make-up man, and after Peter had
told us about his corn----
It is really astonishing, by the way, how many gardeners there are
in a newspaper office.
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