You never know when an adventure is going to begin. But on a train
is a good place to lie in wait for them. So we sat down in the
smoker of the 10 A.M. Eastern Standard Time P.R.R. express to
Philadelphia, in a receptive mood.
At Manhattan Transfer the brakeman went through the train, crying in
a loud, clear, emphatic barytone: "Next stop for this train is North
Philadelphia!"
We sat comfortably, and in that mood of secretly exhilarated mental
activity which is induced by riding on a fast train. We were looking
over the June _Atlantic_. We smiled gently to ourself at that
unconscious breath of New England hauteur expressed in the
publisher's announcement, "_The edition of the Atlantic is carefully
restricted._" Then, meditating also on the admirable sense and skill
with which the magazine is edited, and getting deep into William
Archer's magnificent article "The Great Stupidity" (which we hope
all our clients will read) we became aware of outcries of anguish
and suffering in the aisle near by.
At Manhattan Transfer a stout little man with a fine domy forehead
and a derby hat tilted rather far aft had entered the smoker. He
suddenly learned that the train did not stop at Newark. He uttered
lamentation, and attacked the brakeman with grievous protest. "I
heard you say, This train stops at Newark and Philadelphia," he
insisted. His cigar revolved wildly in the corner of his mouth;
crystal beads burst out upon the opulent curve of his forehead.
"I've got to meet a man in Newark and sell him a bill of goods."
The brakeman was gentle but firm. "Here's the conductor," he said.
"You'll have to talk to him."
Now this is a tribute of admiration and respect to that conductor.
He came along the aisle punching tickets, holding his record slip
gracefully folded round the middle finger of his punch hand, as
conductors do. Like all experienced conductors he was alert,
watchful, ready for any kind of human guile and stupidity, but
courteous the while. The man bound for Newark ran to him and began
his harangue. The frustrated merchant was angry and felt himself a
man with a grievance. 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: