The Prescott daily news., 1912-04-04
CHAPTER II.
The Early Birds and the Worm.

ne EarIy Bl as ana the worm.
 In the erorr ous barn of the rail- road station stood many strings of cars, as if gigantic young Gulliver stabled his toys there and invisibly 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 daycoaches and dingy smoking-cars, packed with workers, like ants.
 Cars are mere vehicles, but locomo- tives have souls The express en- zines roll in or stalk out with gran deur and ease. They are like em- perors. They seem to look with scorn at the suburban engines snorting 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 Nbehavior of theit locomotives. The conductor of a transcontinental mods to the conductor of a shuttle-train with less cordiality than to a brake man of his own. The engineers of the limiteds look like senators in overalls. They are far-traveled men, leading mighty life of adventure. They are pilots of land-ships across land-oceans They have a right to 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 traiu that carries merely day-coaches or half-baked chair-cars, is expressed as only a darkey in a uniform can ex. press disdain for poor white trash.
 Of all the naughty porters that ever curled a lip. the haughtiest by far was the dusky attendant in the San Francisco sleeper on the Trans-Amer- fcan' 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, 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 boxstep waiting for the foot of 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 disposi- dons. 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 Sar Francisco sweetheart had been doing in the five days since he left her and how she woula 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 a-com. in'i"
 The Portland porter turned to gaze.
 "I got my fingers crossed"
 ''I hope you git him."
 "I hope l don't"
 Hell work you hard and cuss you out, and he won't give you even a Much Obliged"
 That's right He ain't got usher to carry his things. And he's got