<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_16" id="Page_16">16</SPAN></span></p>
<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER II<br/> THE EARLY BIRDS AND THE WORM</h3>
<p class="p2">In the enormous barn of the railroad station stood
many strings of cars, as if a gigantic young Gulliver
stabled his toys there and invisibly amused himself;
now whisking this one away, now backing that other
in.</p>
<p>Some of the trains were noble equipages, fitted to
glide across the whole map with cargoes of Lilliputian
millionaires and their Lilliputian ladies. Others
were humble and shabby linked-up day-coaches
and dingy smoking-cars, packed with workers, like
ants.</p>
<p>Cars are mere vehicles, but locomotives have souls.
The express engines roll in or stalk out with grandeur
and ease. They are like emperors. They seem
to look with scorn at the suburban engines snorting
and grunting and shaking the arched roof with their
plebeian choo-choo as they puff from shop to cottage
and back.</p>
<p>The trainmen take their cue from the behavior of
their locomotives. The conductor of a transcontinental
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_17" id="Page_17">17</SPAN></span>
nods to the conductor of a shuttle-train with
less cordiality than to a brakeman of his own. The
engineers of the limiteds look like senators in overalls.
They are far-traveled men, leading a mighty
life of adventure. They are pilots of land-ships
across land-oceans. They have a right to a certain
condescension of manner.</p>
<p>But no one feels or shows so much arrogance as
the sleeping car porters. They cannot pronounce
"supercilious," but they can be it. Their disdain
for the entire crew of any train that carries merely
day-coaches or half-baked chair-cars, is expressed as
only a darkey in a uniform can express disdain for
poor white trash.</p>
<p>Of all the haughty porters that ever curled a lip,
the haughtiest by far was the dusky attendant in the
San Francisco sleeper on the Trans-American Limited.
His was the train of trains in that whole system.
His car the car of cars. His passengers the
surpassengers of all.</p>
<p>His train stood now waiting to set forth upon a
voyage of two thousand miles, a journey across seven
imperial States, a journey that should end only at
that marge where the continent dips and vanishes
under the breakers of the Pacific Ocean.</p>
<p>At the head of his car, with his little box-step waiting
for the foot of the first arrival, the porter stood,
his head swelling under his cap, his breast swelling
beneath his blue blouse, with its brass buttons like
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_18" id="Page_18">18</SPAN></span>
reflections of his own eyes. His name was Ellsworth
Jefferson, but he was called anything from
"Poarr-turr" to "Pawtah," and he usually did not
come when he was called.</p>
<p>To-night he was wondering perhaps what passengers,
with what dispositions, would fall to his lot.
Perhaps he was wondering what his Chicago sweetheart
would be doing in the eight days before his
return. Perhaps he was wondering what his San
Francisco sweetheart had been doing in the five days
since he left her, and how she would pass the three
days that must intervene before he reached her
again.</p>
<p>He had Othello's ebon color. Did he have Othello's
green eye?</p>
<p>Whatever his thoughts, he chatted gaily enough
with his neighbor and colleague of the Portland
sleeper.</p>
<p>Suddenly he stopped in the midst of a soaring
chuckle.</p>
<p>"Lordy, man, looky what's a-comin'!"</p>
<p>The Portland porter turned to gaze.</p>
<p>"I got my fingers crossed."</p>
<p>"I hope you git him."</p>
<p>"I hope I don't."</p>
<p>"He'll work you hard and cuss you out, and he
won't give you even a Much Obliged."</p>
<p>"That's right. He ain't got a usher to carry his
things. And he's got enough to fill a van."
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_19" id="Page_19">19</SPAN></span></p>
<p>The oncomer was plainly of English origin. It
takes all sorts of people to make up the British
Empire, and there is no sort lacking—glorious or
pretty, or sour or sweet. But this was the type of
English globe-trotter that makes himself as unpopular
among foreigners as he is among his own people.
He is almost as unendurable as the Americans
abroad who twang their banjo brag through Europe,
and berate France and Italy for their innocence of
buckwheat cakes.</p>
<p>The two porters regarded Mr. Harold Wedgewood
with dread, as he bore down on them. He
was almost lost in the plethora of his own luggage.
He asked for the San Francisco sleeper, and the
Portland porter had to turn away to smother his
gurgling relief.</p>
<p>Ellsworth Jefferson's heart sank. He made a
feeble effort at self-protection. The Pullman conductor
not being present at the moment, he inquired:</p>
<p>"Have you got yo' ticket?"</p>
<p>"Of cawse."</p>
<p>"Could I see it?"</p>
<p>"Of cawse not. Too much trouble to fish it out."</p>
<p>The porter was fading. "Do you remember yo'
numba?"</p>
<p>"Of cawse. Take these." He began to pile
things on the porter like a mountain unloading an
avalanche. The porter stumbled as he clambered up
the steps, and squeezed through the strait path of
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_20" id="Page_20">20</SPAN></span>
the corridor into the slender aisle. He turned again
and again to question the invader, but he was motioned
and bunted down the car, till he was halted
with a "This will do."</p>
<p>The Englishman selected section three for his
own. The porter ventured: "Are you sho' this is yo'
numba?"</p>
<p>"Of cawse I'm shaw. How dare you question
my——"</p>
<p>"I wasn't questionin' you, boss, I was just astin'
you."</p>
<p>He resigned himself to the despot, and began to
transfer his burdens to the seat. But he did nothing
to the satisfaction of the Englishman. Everything
must be placed otherwise; the catch-all here, the portmanteau
there, the Gladstone there, the golfsticks
there, the greatcoat there, the raincoat there. The
porter was puffing like a donkey-engine, and mutiny
was growing in his heart. His last commission was
the hanging up of the bowler hat.</p>
<p>He stood on the arm of the seat to reach the high
hook. From here he paused to glare down with
an attempt at irony.</p>
<p>"Is they anything else?"</p>
<p>"No. You may get down."</p>
<p>The magnificent patronage of this wilted the porter
completely. He returned to the lower level, and
shuffled along the aisle in a trance. He was quickly
recalled by a sharp:
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_21" id="Page_21">21</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Pawtah!"</p>
<p>"Yassah!"</p>
<p>"What time does this bally train start?"</p>
<p>"Ten-thutty, sah."</p>
<p>"But it's only ten now."</p>
<p>"Yassah. It'll be ten-thutty a little later."</p>
<p>"Do you mean to tell me that I've got to sit hyah
for half an hour—just waitin'?"</p>
<p>The porter essayed another bit of irony:</p>
<p>"Well," he drawled, "I might tell the conducta
you're ready. And mebbe he'd start the train. But
the time-table says ten-thutty."</p>
<p>He watched the effect of his satire, but it fell back
unheeded from the granite dome of the Englishman,
whose only comment was:</p>
<p>"Oh, never mind. I'll wait."</p>
<p>The porter cast his eyes up in despair, and turned
away, once more to be recalled.</p>
<p>"Oh, pawtah!"</p>
<p>"Yassah!"</p>
<p>"I think we'll put on my slippahs."</p>
<p>"Will we?"</p>
<p>"You might hand me that large bag. No, stupid,
the othah one. You might open it. No, its
in the othah one. Ah, that's it. You may set it
down."</p>
<p>Mr. Wedgewood brought forth a soft cap and a
pair of red slippers. The porter made another effort
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_22" id="Page_22">22</SPAN></span>
to escape, his thoughts as black as his face. Again
the relentless recall:</p>
<p>"Oh, pawtah, I think we'll unbutton my boots."</p>
<p>He was too weak to murmur "Yassah." He simply
fell on one knee and got to work.</p>
<p>There was a witness to his helpless rage—a newcomer,
the American counterpart of the Englishman
in all that makes travel difficult for the fellow travelers.
Ira Lathrop was zealous to resent anything
short of perfection, quick and loud of complaint, apparently
impossible to please.</p>
<p>In everything else he was the opposite of the Englishman.
He was burly, middle-aged, rough, careless
in attire, careless of speech—as uncouth and
savage as one can well be who is plainly a man of
means.</p>
<p>It was not enough that a freeborn Afro-American
should be caught kneeling to an Englishman. But
when he had escaped this penance, and advanced
hospitably to the newcomer, he must be greeted with
a snarl.</p>
<p>"Say, are you the porter of this car, or that
man's nurse?"</p>
<p>"I can't tell yet. What's yo' numba, please?"</p>
<p>The answer was the ticket. The porter screwed
up his eyes to read the pencilled scrawl.</p>
<p>"Numba se'm. Heah she is, boss."</p>
<p>"Right next to a lot of women, I'll bet. Couldn't
you put me in the men's end of the car?"
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_23" id="Page_23">23</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Not ve'y well, suh. I reckon the cah is done
sold out."</p>
<p>With a growl of rage, Ira Lathrop slammed into
the seat his entire hand baggage, one ancient and
rusty valise.</p>
<p>The porter gazed upon him with increased depression.
The passenger list had opened inauspiciously
with two of the worst types of travelers the Anglo-Saxon
race has developed.</p>
<p>But their anger was not their worst trait in the
porter's eyes. He was, in a limited way, an expert
in human character.</p>
<p>When you meet a stranger you reveal your own
character in what you ask about his. With some, the
first question is, "Who are his people?" With others,
"What has he achieved?" With others, "How
much is he worth?" Each gauges his cordiality according
to his estimate.</p>
<p>The porter was not curious on any of these points.
He showed a democratic indifference to them. His
one vital inquiry was:</p>
<p>"How much will he tip?"</p>
<p>His inspection of his first two charges promised
small returns. He buttoned up his cordiality, and
determined to waste upon them the irreducible minimum
of attention.</p>
<p>It would take at least a bridal couple to restore
the balance. But bridal couples in their first bloom
rarely fell to the lot of that porter, for what bridal
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_24" id="Page_24">24</SPAN></span>
couple wants to lock itself in with a crowd of passengers
for the first seventy-two hours of wedded
bliss?</p>
<p>The porter banished the hope as a vanity. Little
he knew how eagerly the young castaways from
that wrecked taxicab desired to be a bridal couple,
and to catch this train.</p>
<p>But the Englishman was restive again:</p>
<p>"Pawtah! I say, pawtah!"</p>
<p>"Yassah!"</p>
<p>"What time are we due in San Francisco?"</p>
<p>"San Francisco? San Francisco? We are doo
thah the evenin' of the fo'th day. This bein' Monday,
that ought to bring us in abote Thuzzday
evenin'."</p>
<p>The Yankee felt called upon to check the foreign
usurper.</p>
<p>"Porrterr!"</p>
<p>"Yassah!"</p>
<p>"Don't let that fellow monopolize you. He probably
won't tip you at all."</p>
<p>The porter grew confidential:</p>
<p>"Oh, I know his kind, sah. They don't tip you for
what you do do, but they're ready letter writers to
the Sooperintendent for what you don't do."</p>
<p>"Pawtah! I say, pawtah!"</p>
<p>"Here, porrterr."</p>
<p>The porter tried to imitate the Irish bird, and be
in two places at once. The American had a coin in
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_25" id="Page_25">25</SPAN></span>
his hand. The porter caught the gleam of it, and
flitted thither. The Yankee growled:</p>
<p>"Don't forget that I'm on the train, and when we
get to 'Frisco there may be something more."</p>
<p>The porter had the coin in his hand. Its heft was
light. He sighed: "I hope so."</p>
<p>The Englishman was craning his head around owlishly
to ask:</p>
<p>"I say, pawtah, does this train ever get wrecked?"</p>
<p>"Well, it hasn't yet," and he murmured to the
Yankee, "but I has hopes."</p>
<p>The Englishman's voice was querulous again.</p>
<p>"I say, pawtah, open a window, will you? The
air is ghastly, abso-ripping-lutely ghastly."</p>
<p>The Yankee growled:</p>
<p>"No wonder we had the Revolutionary War!"</p>
<p>Then he took from his pocket an envelope addressed
to Ira Lathrop & Co., and from the envelope
he took a contract, and studied it grimly. The
envelope bore a Chinese stamp.</p>
<p>The porter, as he struggled with an obstinate window,
wondered what sort of passenger fate would
send him next.
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