Next to a poker game for a place to contemplate human nature in its
most aggravated form, comes a great railway passenger station.
Statistics show that nine-tenths of the human race lose their senses
when traveling on the cars, and give free demonstrations of the fact
at every station. Traveling by rail brings out all a man's latent
characteristics and propensities. There is something in the rush of
the train, the smell of the engine smoke, the yell of the butcher, the
volapuk cries of the brakeman and the whizzing scenery visible from
the windows that causes the average human being to shake off the
trammels of convention and custom, and act accordingly.
When the train stops at the depot and unloads its passengers, they
proceed at once to adopt for their style of procedure the idea
expressed by the French phrase _sauve qui peut_, or in polite
language--"the devil take the hindmost."
An observer, unless he is of the "casual" variety, can find much
entertainment in watching the throng of travelers and bystanders at
any metropolitan depot. The scene presented belongs to the spectacular
comedy. There are no stage waits; no changing of scenery; no
forgetting of lines or casting about for applause. The mimes play
their part and vanish; the hero with his valise is jostled by the
heavy villain from the baggage room; leading ladies scramble, kiss,
weep and sigh without bouquets or applause; marionettes wriggle and
dance through the crowd, putted by the strings of chance, and the
comedian plays his part unabashed by the disapproving hiss of the
engines and the groans of the grinding wheels.
At the Houston Grand Central Depot when the trains come in there are
to be seen laughter and lanterns, smiles and sandwiches, palavering
and popcorn, tears and tamales.
To the student of human nature is presented a feast; a conglomerate
hash of the lighter passions and eccentricities of man; a small dish
whereof, ye Post Man will endeavor to set before you.
* * * * *
The waiting room is bright with electric lights. The line of omnibuses
and hacks line the sidewalk on Washington Street, and the drivers are
crowding close to the dead line on the south side of the depot.
Scattered among the benches in the two waiting rooms are prospective
travelers awaiting their trains. The drummers and old traveling men
sit reading their papers or smoking, while new and unseasoned voyagers
are pacing up and down, glancing uneasily at the clock, and firing
questions at everybody that passes. The policeman at the door who has
told the old man with the cotton umbrella at six different times that
the Central arrives at 6:35, makes up his mind that if he inquires
once more he will take the chances on getting a verdict of justifiable
homicide.
The old lady with the yarn mittens who has been rapping with her
spectacle case at the ticket agent's closed window for fifteen minutes
says, "Drat the man," and begins to fumble in her traveling bag for
licorice lozenges.
In the ladies' waiting room there is the usual contingent of
peripatetic public. The bright-eyed, self-possessed young lady who is
the traveling agent for a book, or, perhaps, a new silverware polish,
has learned the art of traveling. Haste and flurry are unknown to her.
A neat traveling cloak and a light hand satchel comprise her
accoutrements. She waits patiently, tapping lightly with a patent
leather toe, and faintly humming the refrain of a song. Not so the
large and copious family who are about to make the journey of their
lives--at least fifty miles. Baskets, bags, valises, buckets, paper
bundles, pot-plants, babies and dogs cover the benches in their
vicinity. The head of the family wears a look as deadly solemn as if
he were on his way to execution. His face shows the strain of the
terrible journey he is about to undertake. He holds his tickets in his
moist hand with a vice-like grip. Traveling is a serious matter with
him. His good lady has taken off her bonnet. She drags out articles
from boxes and bags and puts them back; she trots the baby and strews
aprons, hairpins, knitted gloves and crackers far and wide. She tells
John where she has hidden $13 under a loose board at home; she would
never have mentioned it, but she is certain the train is going to run
off the track and she may be killed. A few grummy looking men sit with
their coat collars turned up, by the side of their weary spouses, who
look as if they cared not for accidents, end of the world, or even
fashions. A black-veiled woman with a prattling boy of five sits in a
corner, disconsolate and lone; some aimless stragglers enter and
wander through the room and out again.
* * * * *
In the men's waiting room there is more life. Depot officials in
uniform hurry through with lanterns. Travelers loll upon the benches,
smoke, read and chat. From the buzz of voices fragments of connected
words can be caught that read something like this:
"Got a $300 order from him, but it cost me $10 in drinks and theater
tickets to get it--yes, I'm going to Galveston; doctor ordered perfect
quiet and rest-a daisy, you bet; blond hair, dark eyes and the
prettiest--lost $20 on treys up; wired my house for expense money this
morning--ain't seen Sam for fifteen year; goin' to stay till
Christmas--loan me that paper if you're through with it--Red flannel
scratches me, this is what I wear--wonder if the train's on time--No,
sir, don't keep the _North American Review_, but here's _Puck_ and
_Judge_--came home earlier one night and found her sitting on the
front steps with--gimme a light please--Houston is the city of
Texas--confound it, I told Maria not to put those cream puffs in my
pocket--No, a cat didn't do it, it's a fingernail mark; you see I put
the letter in the wrong envelope, and-Toot--toot--toot--toot--toot."
The train is coming. An official opens the north doors. There is a
scramble for valises, baskets and overcoats, a mad rush and a
struggling, pushing, impolite jam in the doorway by a lot of people
who know that the train will wait twenty minutes for them after it
arrives.
The bell clangs; the single eye of the coming engine shines with what
may be termed--in order not to disappoint the gentle reader--a baleful
glare. A disciple of Mr. Howells' realistic school might describe the
arrival of the train as follows: "Clang-clang-chookety
chookety--chookety-clang-clackety clack-chook-ety-chook. Che-e-e-e-ew!
Bumpety-bump--Houston!"
The baggage men, with yells of rage, throw themselves upon the trunks
and dash them furiously to the earth. A Swiss emigrant standing near
clasps his hands in ecstasy. "Oh, Gott," he cries, "dess ees yoost my
country like I hear dot avalanch come down like he from dot mountains
in Neuchatel fall!"
The passengers are alighting; they scramble down the steps eagerly and
leap from the last one into space. When they strike the ground most of
them relapse into idiocy, and rush wildly off in the first direction
that conveniently presents itself. A couple of brakemen head off a few
who are trying to run back under the train and start them off in the
right direction.
The conductor stands like a blue-coated tower of strength in the
center of the crowd answering questions with an ease and coolness that
would drive a hotel clerk wild with envy. Here are a few of the
remarks that are fired at him: "Oh, conductor, I left one of my gloves
in the car. How long does the train stop? Do you know where Mrs.
Tompkins lives? Merciful heaven, I left my baby in the car! Where can
I find a good restaurant? Say! Conductor, watch my valise till I get a
cup of coffee! Is my hat on straight? Oh, have you seen my husband?
He's a tall man with link cuff-buttons. Conductor, can you change a
dollar? What's the best hotel in town? Which way is town? Oh, where's
mamma gotten to? Oh, find my darling Fido; he has a blue ribbon round
his neck," and so on, _ad noisyam_--as one might say. You can tell old
travelers at a glance. They have umbrellas and novels strapped to
their satchels and they strike a bee line for the open doors at the
depot without creating any disturbance.
But the giggling school girls on their way home for the holidays, the
old spectacled lady who punches your ribs with her umbrella, the
country family covered with confusion and store clothes, the fat lady
with the calla-lily in a pot, the timid man following the lady with
the iron jaw and carrying two children, a bird cage and a guitar, and
the loud breathing man who has been looking upon the buffet car when
it was red, all these have tangled themselves into a struggling,
inquiring, tangled Babel of bag, baggage, babies and bluster.
* * * * *
The young lady is there to meet her school-girl friend. The escort
stands at one side with his cane in his mouth; nervously fingering in
his vest pocket to see if the car fare is ready at hand. The girls
grapple each other, catch-as-catch-can, fire a broadside of the opera
bouffe brand of kisses, and jabber out something like this: "Oh, you
sweet thing, so glad you've come--toothache?--no, no, it's a
caramel--such a lovely cape, I want the pattern--dying to see
you--that ring--my brother gave it to me--don't tell me a
story--Charlie and Tom and Harry and Bob, and--oh, I forgot--Tom, this
is Kitty--real sealskin of course--talk all night when we get
home"--"Git out der way dere, gents and ladies"--a truck piled with
trunks four-high goes crashing by; a policeman drags an old lady from
under the wheels, and she plunges madly at the engine and is rescued
by the fireman, whom she abuses as a pickpocket and an oppressor of
the defenseless.
A sour-looking man with a big valise comes out of the crowd and is
seized upon by a red-nosed man in a silk hat.
"Did you get it, old boy?" asks the man with the nose.
"Get your grandmother!" growls the sour man.
"That fellow Reed is the biggest liar in America. Feller from Maine
got it. I'm a populist from this day on. Got the price of a toddy,
Jimmy?"
The engine stands and puffs sullenly. The crowd disperses gradually,
stringing by twos, threes and larger through the waiting-room doors.
Depot officials hustle along, pushing their way among the people.
A brakeman springs from his car and runs up to a dim female figure
lurking in the shadow of the depot.
"How is the kid?" he asks sharply with an uneven breath.
"Bad," says the woman, in a dry, low voice. "Fever a hundred and four
all day. Keeps a-calling of you all the time, Jim. Got to go out again
tonight?"
"Orders," says Jim and then: "No, cussed if I do. The company can go
to the devil. Callin' of me, is he? Come on, Liz." He takes the
woman's arm and they hurry away into the darkness.
A ragged man with a dreary whine to his voice fastens upon a big
stranger in a long overcoat who is hurrying hotel-wards.
"Have you a dime, sir, a man could get something to eat with?" The big
man pauses and says kindly, "Certainly. I have more than that. I have
at least a dollar for supper, and I'm going up to the Hutchins House
and get it. Good night."
On the other side of the depot the hack drivers are crowding to the
dead line, filling the air with cries. A pompous man, who never allows
himself to be imposed upon when traveling, steps up to a carriage and
slings his valise inside. "Drive me to the Lawlor Hotel," he says,
commandingly.
"But, sir," says the driver. "The Lawlor is--"
"I don't want any comments," says the pompous man. "If you don't want
the job, say so."
"I was just going to say that--"
"I know where I want to go, and if you think you know any better--"
"Jump in," says the driver. "I'll take you."
The pompous man gets into the carriage; the driver mounts to his seat,
whips up his horses, drives across the street, fully twenty-five yards
away, opens the door and says: "Lawlor Hotel, sir; 50 cents, please."
He gets a dollar instead, and promises to say nothing about it.
The carriages and omnibuses rattle away with their loads; other
travelers straggle in for the next train, and when it arrives the
Grand Central will repeat its little farce comedy with new actors, and
new specialties and various readings between the lines.
(_Houston Daily Post_, Monday morning, December 16, 1895.)