News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1912-07-24
CHAPTER II.
The Early Birds and the Worm.


amused himself; now whisking this
one away, now backing that other in.
Some of the trains were noble equip
ages, fitted to glide across the whole
map with cargoes of Lilliputian mil
lionaires and their Lilliputian ladies'
Others were humble and shabby
linked-up day-coaches and dingy
smoking-cars, packed with workers.
like ants.
Cars are mere vehicles, but locomo'
tives have souls. The express en-
gines roll in or stalk out with gran
deur and ease. They are like en-
perors. They seem to look with scorn
at the suburban engines snoring and
grunting and shaking the arched
roof with their plebeian choo-choo as
they puff from shop to cottage and
back.
The trainmen take their cue from
the behavior of then locomotives. The
conductor Of a transcontinental mods
to the conductor of a shuttle-train
with less cordially than to brake
man of his own. The engineers OF
the limiteds look like senators in
overalls. They are far-traveled men
leading a mighty life of adventure
They are pilots of land-ships across
land-oceans. They have right to q
certain condescension of manner
But no one feels or shows so much
arrogance as the sleeping car porters
They cannot pronounce "supercili
ous," but they can be it. Their dis
dain for the entire crew of any train
that carries merely day-coaches OF
half-baked chair-cars, is expressed as
only darkey in a uniform can ex
press disdain for poor white trash.
Of all the naughty porters that ever
curled lip, the haughtiest by far
was the dusky attendant in the San
Francisco sleeper on the Trans-Amer
lean Limited. His was the train OF
trains in that whole system. His car
the car of cars. His passengers the
surpassengers of all.
His train stood now waiting to set
forth upon voyage of two thousand
miles, a journey across seven imperial
states, journey that should end only
at that marge where the continent
dips and vanishes under the breakers
of the Pacific ocean.
At the head of his car, with his lit
tie box-step waiting for the foot Oh
the first arrival, the porter stood, his
head swelling under his cap, his
breast swelling beneath his blue
blouse, with it's brass buttons like
reflections of his own eyes. His name
was Ellsworth Jefferson, but he was
called anything from "Poarr-turr" to
"Pawtah," and he usually did not
come when he was called.
Tonight he was wondering perhaps
what passengers, with what DISPOSE
tons, would fall to his lot. Perhaps
he was wondering what his Chicago
sweetheart would be doing in the
eight days before his return. Per
haps he was wondering what his San
Francisco sweetheart had been doing
in the five days since he left her. and
how she would pass the three days
that must intervene before he
reached her again.
He had Othello's ebon color. Did
he have Othello's green eye?
Whatever his thoughts, he chatted
gaily enough with his neighbor and
colleague of the Portland sleeper
Suddenly he stopped in the midst
of a soaring chuckle.
"Lordy, man, looky what's aeon.
I'M"
The Portland porter turned to gaze.
81 got my fingers crossed"
Il hope you git him."
81 hope 1 don't"
Hell work you hard and cuss you
out, and he won't give you even a
Much Obliged"
That's right. He amt got usher
to carry his things. And he's got
enough to fill a van"
The oncomer was plainly of Eng.
fish origin 1t takes all sorts of peo-
Pile to make up the British Empire,
and there is no sort Neutrality-suspicious.
Or pretty, or sour or sweet. But this
was the type of English globe-trotter
that makes himself as unpopular
among foreigners as he is among his
own people. He is almost as unen.
durable as the Americans abroad who
twang their banjo brag through Eu-
rope, and berate France and Italy for
their innocence of buckwheat cakes.
The two porters regarded Mr.. Har-
old Wedgewood with dread, as he
bore down on them. He was almost
lost in the plethora of his own lug.
gage He asked for the San Fran.
cisco sleeper, and the Portland porter
had to turn away to smother his CUR.
Cling relief.
Ellsworth Jefferson's heart sank.
He made a feeble effort at selfpro-
lection. The Pullman conductor not
being present at the moment, be in.
quired:
Have you got yo ticket7"
"Of cawse."
could l see it?"
"Of cawse not. Too much trouble
to fish it out"
The porter was fading. do you
remember yo' numba?"
"Of cawse. Take these" He began
to pile things on the porter like
mountain unloading an avalanche.
The porter stumbled as he clambered