A coarse-looking waiter is likely to drive me from the car, but if his face is kind, I try to win him over. I slip him a bill or two, and he turns off the drums and puts on a classical station. The old-timers recognize me. They know they'll be rewarded. A heated railroad car with good music is better than any hotel room.
Hotels spread melancholy and despair.
Not so trains. They can intoxicate every one of your senses to the fullest. To be honest, my competitors, my enemies, also infest the trains and force me to maintain great vigilance. My competitors are short, thin men whose quickness is not that of youth, but of those who fear for their lives. They are terrified by the open platform.