In these days if anything gets past the up-to-date train butcher it
isn't because the public knows any more than it did in Barnum's time.
We get a customer every minute by the birth records.
For a genuine, all-round, dyed-in-the-wool separator of coin from its
proud possessor, the train butcher is the limit. Here is a word for
word story by a train "butch" of how the thing is done. He excuses his
tactics much the same way that the little rogue does who points out
that the giant malefactors are doing the same thing, but "getting away
with it." Enter Mr. Butch.
"I got back yesterday from a two days' trip--out and in.
I had $29.65 to the good, and the company satisfied, and
nary a kick from the railroad. At one little place down the
line, though, a railroad detective got aboard and tried to
detect.
"'Say, young feller,' he said to me, 'I saw you go through
here yesterday lookin' pretty spruce, and I thought I'd
better take a look through yer grips as you came back. What
yer got in there?'
"He kicked my grip, and I opened her up on the minute. He
went through it like an old goat through a cracker barrel,
but he didn't find anything--see? If he'd looked under the
cushion of a seat in the smoker he might have found a whole
lot of stuff that didn't look like a prayer meeting layout.