Here is a story told me the other day by a drummer traveling for the
Solvay Process Company. We were on the New York Central, riding from
Syracuse to Albany ❦ The incident has a fromage flavor that makes it look
like lallapaloosala persiflage. However, it may be true, for no one is
in such danger of the Ananias Club as he who has the courage to give the
plain, unvarnished facts ❦ I am unable to recall his exact words, and
so I use my own language. ¶ So say we, tell we the tale: My friend, the
drummer, took the Owl, a midnight train from Chicago to Des Moines ❦ The
section just across from his berth was occupied by a Vision in Gray.
¶ The chromatic ensemble was that known at Wanamaker’s as “elephant’s
breath.” From the tip of her toe to the proudly defiant Henry of Navarre
ostrich-plume, she was an ecstacy in silvery gray. The Chiaroscuro was
as lissome, billowy, willowy, pearly, evasive and impressionistic as the
fog that hangs low on the October corn, when the rising sun is a great,
round, red ball on the rim of the dreamy and effete East ❦ From Land’s
End to John O’Groat’s the symphony was satisfying and complete. Her hat
was a milliner’s creation; her dress an architect’s dream, devised by
Kirk Cutter in an artistic seizure; her hair was done up as provided by
the Interstate Commerce Commission. Yet the woman was modest, refined,
lady-like. Her high-sign only referred to the duds and haberdashery ❦ She
was neither fly nor flip—merely bouffant, that’s all. She was as tall as
the Solvay Process man, for he had observed it, being from Syracuse.
¶ The Pullman-car conductor came through and took up the tickets. The
Vision in Gray had the whole section—she said so—she needed the upper
berth for her clothes, and cautioned the porter that the space was hers.
“Yassum! Comin’ up!” said George in reassuring tones that cost a quarter.
He had no tissue envelope big enough for the hat, so it was covered with
two copies of the Chicago _News_. ¶ The train started. Soon the curtains
were drawn and the lights turned low; nothing was heard save the rumble
and roar of the onward rush of the train, and the snores of an obese
attorney, traveling for pleasure. Morning came. It often does. It came
dim and foggy. Lights blinked, six o’clock whistles blew, calling workmen
from their beds to toil ❦ The man from Syracuse was awakened by words
of tumult and sounds of entreaty. The porter was swearing an alibi in a
tearful Scipio Africanus voice: “Ah nevah saw dem close, Missus! Ah hope
to die—Fo’ Gawd, I hope to die! I’se a Baptis’ an’ nevah done nothin’ bad
in my life!” And from out the berth filled by the Vision came subdued
feminine threats, which died away in half-sobs of anguish that shook
the soul of the Solvay Process party, strong man though he was. ¶ The
Pullman Conductor came. The train conductor was summoned ❦ The flagman
who guards the rear end forgot his duties, as he stood in the aisle with
his red flag, and attached to it two cartridges and a red light, ready to
fire on a second’s notice of danger. The train conductor was trying to
make a list of the things lost ❦ The upper berth was absolutely empty.
The hat was gone; the dress, a tailor-made fabric, which the unseen said
between sobs was worth two hundred dollars, was swallowed by oblivion.
All the fluffy ruffles had disappeared. “Haven’t you a kimono?” asked
the Pullman Conductor, not so much for information as to reveal his
knowledge of technique. ¶ “I did have, but that has gone too,” was the
anguish-laden response ❦ Alas! All she had was the suit of pajamas
that she wore which clung close in this time of need. Even the gray
chamois-shoes were gone. Two women had left the train at four o’clock in
the morning at the Junction, but they carried nothing save hand-bags.
“They could have put my clothes on over theirs,” murmured the lady from
out the dismal depths of Lower Number Nine ❦ The train-hands retired to
the smoking-room to consult. It was no joke to them—they were all under
suspicion. ¶ Suddenly, the man from Syracuse had an Idea. He had with
him an extra pair of trousers, and of course the regular business-suit
he wore. Hastily he groped beneath his berth for his suitcase. With
trembling hands he pulled forth the pants. He reached over and pushed
them into the berth, saying: “Here, Miss, I am an Elk ❦ Don’t be afraid,
I’m an Elk, and the first prong of my creed is to do good ❦ I am a
respectable married man from Syracuse. I’ll help you out of this fix—put
on these.” And then, his generosity increasing as the Good Samaritan
instincts in his cosmos began to find expression, he handed over his coat
and vest. “Then here is my raincoat, which will come to your feet!” “Oh,
thanks, kind sir,” she said; “but I can not take your clothes—for what
will you do?” The voice was flute-like, and modulated like an aeolian.
“Oh, I don’t need any clothes,” said the liar from Onondaga County;
“besides, I have another suit.” ¶ “But my hat! my hat!” moaned the lady.
“Take this,” said the disciple of Chancellor Day. “Take this. I have my
traveling-cap,” and he pushed the hat into the unseen depths ❦ It was
a big, light-colored Roycroft Stetson. “Do your hair up on top of your
head, and pull the hat well down—it will be all right—don’t cry!” ¶ “But
I have no shoes!” “Wear mine—I have a pair of slippers.” ❦ And he pushed
his shoes through the curtain, and looked the other way. Only the onward
roar of the train was heard as the conductors came back. “You are sure
you had the clothes on when you boarded the train?” asked one conductor
in a voice ill-concealing his resentment. “Never mind—I’ll get along—go
away—I will make my claim on the road direct. Go away, please!” They were
glad enough to get away. ¶ As the gloaming began to gloam, the porter
turned up the lights. Now and then the electric bell buzzed. The obese
party was calling for his shoes. A man had lost an umbrella. He got it.
A lady in an upper berth wanted a stepladder. The porter was working
like mad making up berths so as to brush his passengers and receive the
offertory before they got to Des Moines. A party wearing a long raincoat
and a big, light-colored Roycroft Stetson emerged cautiously from a
berth, and hurried toward the ladies’ dressing-room ❦ “Hi, Kuhnel,
t’other end of the kyar, if you don’ min’, please,” called the porter ❦
The berths were all made up. The porter had brushed everybody except the
party wearing the big Stetson, drawn low, who occupied Number Nine. The
porter had now concluded that the unpleasantness of the early morning was
the result of a hoodoo—the failure to carry his rabbit’s foot. It was all
a bad dream! “Brush!” he said, with a flourish, approaching the party
in the long raincoat. The Stetson shook, and two sad, gray eyes looked
straight at the colored brother ❦ He fled in dismay. George was out a
quarter that he had counted on. The drummer from Syracuse, wearing his
ulster buttoned to the chin, helped the soft-hatted party out of the car,
through the station into the Hotel Savery bus. “I’ll send your clothes
back as soon as I can buy more,” said the lady in her low, musical voice
❦ “Oh, don’t bother!” said Dionysius of Syracuse, blushing brick-dust. ¶
The drummer forgot to give her his address, and to take hers. He felt
sort of guilty, being a respectable married man, and from Syracuse, as
before stated. He did not go to the Hotel Savery, as usual. ¶ He bought a
pair of shoes, a smart Stein-Bloch Company suit, saw his trade, and left
for Omaha on the Two-ten.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]