It was a bitterly cold night, and even at the far end of the bus the
east wind that raved along the street cut like a knife. The bus
stopped, and two women and a man got in together and filled the vacant
places. The younger woman was dressed in sealskin, and carried one of
those little Pekinese dogs that women in sealskin like to carry in
their laps. The conductor came in and took the fares. Then his eye
rested with cold malice on the beady-eyed toy dog. I saw trouble
brewing. This was the opportunity for which he had been waiting, and
he intended to make the most of it. I had marked him as the type of
what Mr. Wells has called the Resentful Employee, the man with a
general vague grievance against everything and a particular grievance
against passengers who came and sat in his bus while he shivered at the
door.
"You must take that dog out," he said with sour venom.
"I shall certainly do nothing of the kind. You can take my name and
address," said the woman, who had evidently expected the challenge and
knew the reply.
"You must take that dog out--that's my orders."
"I won't go on the top in such weather. It would kill me," said the
woman.
"Certainly not," said her lady companion. "You've got a cough as it
is."
"It's nonsense," said her male companion. The conductor pulled the
bell and the bus stopped. "This bus doesn't go on until that dog is
brought out." And he stepped on to the pavement and waited. It was
his moment of triumph. He had the law on his side and a whole busful
of angry people under the harrow. His embittered soul was having a
real holiday.
The storm inside rose high. "Shameful"; "He's no better than a
German"; "Why isn't he in the Army?"; "Call the police"; "Let's all
report him"; "Let's make him give us our fares back"; "Yes, that's it,
let's make him give us our fares back." For everybody was on the side
of the lady and the dog.
That little animal sat blinking at the dim lights in happy
unconsciousness of the rumpus of which he was the cause.
The conductor came to the door. "What's your number?" said one, taking
out a pocketbook with a gesture of terrible things. "There's my
number," said the conductor imperturbably. "Give us our fares
back--you've engaged to carry us--you can't leave us here all night."
"No fares back," said the conductor.
Two or three passengers got out and disappeared into the night. The
conductor took another turn on the pavement, then went and had a talk
with the driver. Another bus, the last on the road, sailed by
indifferent to the shouts of the passengers to stop. "They stick by
each other--the villains," was the comment.
Someone pulled the bell violently. That brought the driver round to
the door. "Who's conductor of this bus?" he said, and paused for a
reply. None coming, he returned to his seat and resumed beating his
arms across his chest. There was no hope in that quarter. A policeman
strolled up and looked in at the door. An avalanche of indignant
protests and appeals burst on him. "Well, he's got his rules, you
know," he said genially. "Give your name and address." "That's what
he's been offered, and he won't take it." "Oh," said the policeman,
and he went away and took his stand a few yards down the street, where
he was joined by two more constables.
And still the little dog blinked at the lights, and the conductor
walked to and fro on the pavement like a captain on the quarter-deck in
the hour of victory. A young woman, whose voice had risen high above
the gale inside, descended on him with an air of threatening and
slaughter. He was immovable--as cold as the night and hard as the
pavement. She passed on in a fury of impotence to the three policemen,
who stood like a group of statuary up the street watching the drama.
Then she came back, imperiously beckoned to her "young man" who had sat
a silent witness of her rage, and vanished. Others followed. The bus
was emptying. Even the dashing young fellow who had demanded the
number, and who had declared he would see this thing through if he sat
there all night, had taken an opportunity to slip away.
Meanwhile the Pekinese party were passing through every stage of
resistance to abject surrender. "I'll go on the top," said the
sealskin lady at last. "You mustn't." "I will." "You'll have
pneumonia." "Let me take it." (This from the man.) "Certainly
not"--she would die with her dog. When she had disappeared up the
stairs, the conductor came back, pulled the bell, and the bus went on.
He stood sourly triumphant while his conduct was savagely discussed in
his face by the remnant of the party.
Then the engine struck work, and the conductor went to the help of the
driver. It was a long job, and presently the lady with the dog stole
down the stairs and re-entered the bus. When the engine was put right
the conductor came back and pulled the bell. Then his eye fell on the
dog, and his hand went to the bell-rope again. The driver looked
round, the conductor pointed to the dog, the bus stopped, and the
struggle recommenced with all the original features, the conductor
walking the pavement, the driver smacking his arm on the box, the
little dog blinking at the lights, the sealskin lady declaring that she
would not go on the top--and finally going....
"I've got my rules," said the conductor to me when I was the last
passenger left behind. He had won his victory, but felt that he would
like to justify himself to somebody.
"Rules," I said, "are necessary things, but there are rules and rules.
Some are hard and fast rules, like the rule of the road, which cannot
be broken without danger to life and limb. But some are only rules for
your guidance, which you can apply or wink at, as common sense
dictates--like that rule about the dogs. They are not a whip put in
your hand to scourge your passengers with, but an authority for an
emergency. They are meant to be observed in the spirit, not in the
letter--for the comfort and not the discomfort of the passengers. You
have kept the rule and broken its spirit. You want to mix your rules
with a little goodwill and good temper."
He took it very well, and when I got off the bus he said "Good night"
quite amiably.