_Dear Father_:
Replying to your last budget of aphorism and advice, I must say that it
pains me somewhat to find my own father skeptical as to the history of
the fish I caught at Spring Lake. The only lies I have ever told thus
far have been on the road for Graham & Co., and I'm not going to begin
any outside prevaricating on such trivial articles as fish. By the way,
why do they use the term "fish stories" as a generic description for
falsehoods? If the world only knew its business, "pork yarns" would be
the synonym henceforth and forevermore.
But a truce to the finny tribe! I note with joy that the wisdom of the
"House" has decreed that I am to be assistant manager of the lard
department on my return. Now, to be honest, there's nothing very
fascinating about tried-out pig fat, but the prospects of staying in
good old Chicago right along atone for anything. We college men at first
condemn our city because it seems the right and proper thing to do,
after Boston; but let me tell you that a few months on the road will
knock all that nonsense out of a fellow for good, and he's willing to
swear that old "Chi" is the nearest copy of the New Jerusalem that's yet
been invented.
Allow me to congratulate you on your good taste, my dear father, in
gilding the lard pail with the fifty per you mention. I haven't sold so
very many goods, but I like to see that you recognize good intentions. I
have always believed that the Graham products could be made to sell
better if certain imperfections could be eliminated, and these I have
tried to point out to you, from time to time. It speaks well for your
good sense that you haven't got offended at my blunt speech. Of course I
can't help feeling elated, also, at my rapid rise in the business. It
isn't every young man who can climb from eight dollars a week to fifty
in about a year; it only goes to prove my pet theory that to the son of
the "old man" all things are possible.
I'm coming back to town with the firm determination to make the manager
of the lard department look like three battered dimes. As you say, it's
my business to do my work so well that I can run the department without
him, and I'm going to bring that about pretty deuced quick, because I
need his job. I rely on your shrewd sense of economy to fire him the
moment he becomes superfluous.
Your observation to the effect that a man who can't take orders can't
give them, may be true enough in the pork-packing business, but did you
ever watch a Pullman car conductor? The only person I can conceive of
giving him orders is the porter, and I presume there's sufficient
_esprit de corps_ to lead the subordinate functionary to at least make a
pretence of deference due, and take out all his bossing on the
passengers. As you must be aware from the way I've been eating my way
through mileage books, I've made some long jumps lately. It was
necessary, for as soon as I gladdened your paternal heart by becoming
the "car lot man" you once expressed some doubt of my ever being, I saw
at once that I had no business in towns where a car load of anybody's
lard--to say nothing of ours--would last so long as to become eventually
a public nuisance. My long railroad trips have broadened my point of
view of life materially, and have incidentally given me no little
amusement.
I tell you, father, outside of your letters there's no place where human
nature can be studied so well as on a railroad train; whether it is the
nervous strain of travel, or the clickety-click of the wheels, or the
rapid motion, a man on a train comes pretty near acting out his real
nature. It's pretty hard to be a hero to a "Limited" conductor. Thanks
to the methods of American railroading, democracy is at its zenith on
the cars. True, we have gradations, but the people who ride second-class
are seldom appealing, while the parlor car is really very little of a
barrier against the touching elbows of the most diverse elements of
society. For a collection of all sorts, commend me to the parlor coach
of an express. You are quite as likely to be bled in a game of
freeze-out in the smoker next to the buffet, as you are in a less
expensive portion of the train.
There was a very merry crowd of travelling men on the "Gilt-Edge"
Express the other afternoon when I came through. It was a hot day and
very few of the boys took the parlor, preferring the greater freedom
from constraint of the ordinary smoker. If this had not been the case,
perhaps the incident which I am to relate--merely as a warning to you,
for I know you take the "Gilt-Edged" occasionally--might not have
occurred.
The train stops at the Junction, you know, about ten minutes, and the
majority of the boys got down to stretch their legs on the platform and
get a bit of air, for even Indiana air is better than no air at all. As
I strolled along, smoking, my attention was attracted by a young woman
who was pacing slowly up and down the extreme end of the platform. As I
am not especially observant of the fair sex, the fact that I noticed her
at all is proof that she was considerably out of the ordinary in the
feminine line. In fact, she was ripe fruit from the very top layer.
She had a music roll under her arm, and a tailor-made gown that,
fitting perfectly, showed that not quite all the modern Venuses have
been corralled for the "showgirl" department of musical comedy. It was
little wonder, then, that one of the band of travelling men should have
disentangled himself from his fellows and extended his promenade up into
the reservation affected by the Beauty, for closer inspection
subsequently proved that she was entitled to the name and to the initial
capital I've employed. The two paced up and down, as people will, and
passed each other several times. It chanced that just as this passing
was about to occur again, the music roll fell to the platform. A raised
hat, a returned music roll, a smile, a murmured "thank you," were the
preludes to a more extended conversation.
I noted that at the fall of the music roll a slight laugh arose from
several of the older fellows, but I paid no attention to it at the time,
being otherwise engaged. When the train started the young woman was
helped into the parlor car by her new acquaintance, and provided with a
seat which, as he put it, he had secured for his sister, who, at the
last moment, had postponed her journey. He was rather young, this
travelling man, so his trepidation is explained. It was scarcely
necessary, as I have since learned, for him to sneak out and
surreptitiously pay for both seats. It was surprising how this little
incident affected the railroad business. Almost all the drummer clan
moved up into the parlor coach. I imagined at the time that they envied
their associate his prize and wished at least to share his very evident
satisfaction by witnessing it.
The young man was most gallant, and everything that the train boy
offered, from the latest novel to chocolates and smelling salts, was
left in the young woman's custody. Never have I seen a train boy who
made as many trips in a given time. The dining car had been put on at
the Junction--the train, you know, gets in just between hay and grass on
the meal question--and the porter's announcement had scarcely left his
lips before the couple were at the table. Most of the boys went, too,
and watched with evident delight the exquisite taste and lavish appetite
with which the young woman selected from the _à la carte_ menu. I was
one of the few who saw the check after it was all over, and its
duplicate would practically annihilate half a week's salary for me.
It was over quite soon, for, just as the pair had begun to sip their
cordial, the train whistled and slowed down. I thought there must have
been an accident, for the train is an express with no stops indicated
between the Junction and the terminus. But the young woman was better
posted, for she interrupted the flow of conversation and _liqueur_, by
gathering up the beneficences heaped upon her, for sundry
considerations, by the train boy. The young man expostulated, but she
nodded her head and said something in a low tone. Just then the
conductor of the regular train came into the dining car.
"Oh, there you are, Bessie! I thought I'd find you here. Hurry now!
Remember, you nearly got a fall yesterday by being slow."
The car was rosy with grinning faces by this time, but the red flush on
the young man's cheeks was certainly the most conspicuous feature. But I
am pleased to say that he kept a stiff upper lip and assisted the young
woman off the train. When he returned it was on the run--in the
gathering up of the books, boxes and magazines, the young woman had
forgotten her music roll. He had to throw it at her as the train rolled
ahead. There was no hope for him; he had to go back into the dining car,
for the check had not been paid.
As he opened the door he met the porter and hurled one question at him.
"Why in thunder did the train stop here?"
"Stops ebry day, sir," answered the grinning son of Ham. "Dere's a
bridge ahead an' we has to slow down, an' as Miss Bessie's de engineer's
daughter, he makes it a full stop so she kin ride home on the Express."
It was really pitiful what the young man was forced to endure as he
walked back to his table. It is but simple justice to him to say that he
stood his ground bravely, doubled the denomination of his check for the
benefit of his guyers, and tried to drop vague hints as to future
carriage rides.
It was of no avail, however, for every man jack of them, except himself,
knew that Bessie was an established institution on the "Gilt Edge," and
that it was accounted a pretty dull trip when she failed to add to the
revenue of the dining car. Of course she is doing a certain sort of good
in the world, on her daily trip from her music lesson, in taking some of
the conceit out of fresh young men, but I really think it would be quite
as well for her if she rode on the engine with her father.
The balance of that run was devoted to stories of somewhat similar
experiences. Job Withers--he is sure to be around when anything
happens--told one on himself which sounded a bit apochryphal, but is
nevertheless worth repeating, as illustrating how easy it is to simplify
a situation by speaking the right word at the right time. As Job tells
it, he draws a verbal picture of a very pretty girl in a crowded car and
confesses to having honored her with glances more admiring than strictly
decorous.
"She was a beauty, boys, and no mistake, and I envied the old lady who
sat with her. When the old lady left the train I sauntered out upon the
platform and stayed there till the train slowed down for the next stop.
Then I wandered in again and, stopping beside the young Hebe, I
inquired in my most dulcet tones, 'Is this seat engaged, miss?'
"She looked up straight into my face, and her baby-blue eyes seemed to
be making a bill of lading of me. Then she spoke up in a sweet, clear,
distinct voice, that must have been heard in every part of the car.
'No,' she said, 'this seat isn't engaged, but I am, and _he_ is just
getting aboard the train.'
"And he was, six feet seven of him, with hands like friend Piggy's hams.
I tell you, boys," concluded Job, "I felt about as cheap as the man who
raised a warranted watch-dog from a pup, taught him to fetch and carry
things, and, when burglars broke into the house, discovered their
presence without his dog's assistance, and found that the faithful brute
was doing credit to his training by trotting about after the burglars
with their lantern in his mouth."
I got quite a shock to-day by the receipt of a letter, forwarded from
Chicago, from one Silas Pettingill, attorney at Doolittle's Mills, Ind.,
informing me that Miss Verbena Philpot had decided to sue for breach of
promise in the sum of $10,000. The only way in which this calamity could
be staved off, according to Mr. Pettingill, was by my going to
Doolittle's Mills and making "other arrangements," which I firmly
decline to do. Verbena is all right on her native heath, but I fear that
transplanting her to Chicago wouldn't be healthful for her or me. Talk
about your simple, confiding farmers and all that sort of rubbish! I
believe that if old "Vebe" Philpot should come to Chicago and walk up
and down State street a couple of times, he would have the biggest bunco
artist in town skinned to his last nickel before sundown. As it is,
however, the thing looks rather ugly, and I don't know but I had better
be absent from home for a year or so. Why couldn't I be made manager of
your London branch instead of monkeying with the lard department?
Your threatened son, P.
P.S. In some roundabout way you may hear of the train escapade with the
engineer's daughter. The boys on the road are no respecters of persons
and are likely to make most any one the hero of a story. Should some
hint connecting me with the affair reach you, it will be only necessary
to recall that you heard the story first from me.
LETTER No. XVI.
_The Game of Golf, a most peculiar banquet, a social lion's fall and his
escape from threatening legal meshes, inspire Pierrepont's pen._