The train was starting to slow.
“Get away from that door,” we heard someone say inside the door.
“Open it up,” said the detective and stepped back.
“Al,” the voice said. “Al, are you all right?”
The detective stood just to one side of the door. The train was slowing down.
“Al,” said the voice again. “Answer me if you’re all right.”
There was no answer. The train stopped. The brakeman opened the door. “What the hell?” he said. He looked at the man on the floor, the blood and the detective holding the revolver. The conductor was coming down from the other end of the car.
“There’s a fellow in there that’s killed a man,” the detective said.
“The hell there is. He’s gone out the window,” said the brakeman.
“Watch that man,” said the detective. He opened the door to the platform. I went across the aisle and looked out the window. Along the tracks there was a fence. Beyond the fence was the woods. I looked up and down the tracks. The detective came running by; then ran back. There was no one in sight. The detective came back in the car and they opened the door of the washroom. The door would not swing open because the sergeant was lying across it on the floor. The window was open about halfway. The sergeant was still breathing. They picked him up and carried him out into the car and they picked up the prisoner and put him in a seat. The detective put the handcuff through the handle of a big suitcase. Nobody seemed to know what to do or whether to look after the sergeant or try and find the little man or what. Everybody had gotten out of the train and looked down the tracks and in the edge of the woods. The brakeman had seen the little man run across the tracks and into the woods. The detective went into the woods a couple of times and then came out. The prisoner had taken the sergeant’s gun and nobody seemed to want to go very far into the woods after him. Finally they started the train to get to a station where they could send for the state constabulary and send out a description of the little man. My father helped them with the sergeant. He washed off the wound, it was between the collarbone and the neck, and sent me to get paper and towels from the washroom and folded them over and made a plug for it and tied it tight in with a sleeve from the sergeant’s shirt. They laid him out as comfortably as they could and my father washed off his face. His head had been banged against the floor of the washroom and he was still unconscious but my father said the wound was not serious. At the station they took him off and the detective took the other prisoner off too. The other prisoner’s face was white and he had a bruised bump on the side of his head. He looked silly when they took him off and seemed anxious to move very fast to do whatever they told him. My father came back in the car from helping them with the sergeant. They had put him in a motor truck that was at the station and were going to drive him to a hospital. The detective was sending wires. We were standing on the platform and the train started and I saw the prisoner standing there, leaning the back of his head against the wall of the station. He was crying.
I felt pretty bad about everything and we went in the smoker. The brakeman had a bucket and a bunch of waste and was mopping up and washing where the blood had been.
“How was he, Doc?” he said to my father.
“I’m not a doctor,” my father said. “But I think he’ll be all right.”
“Two big dicks,” said the brakeman. “And they couldn’t handle that one little shrimp.”
“Did you see him get out the window?”
“Sure,” said the brakeman. “Or I saw him just after he lit on the tracks.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. Not when I first saw him. How do you think he stabbed him, Doc?”
“He must have jumped up on him from behind,” my father said.
“Wonder where he got the knife?”
“I don’t know,” said my father.
“That other poor boob,” said the brakeman. “He never even tried to make a break.”
“No.”
“That detective gave him his though. Did you see it, Doc?”
“Yes.”
“That poor boob,” the brakeman said. It was damp and clean where he had washed. We went back to our seats in the other car. My father sat and did not say anything and I wondered what he was thinking.
“Well, Jimmy,” he said, after a while.
“Yes.”
“What do you think of it all now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I,” said my father. “Do you feel bad?”
“Yes.”
“So do I. Were you scared?”
“When I saw the blood,” I said. “And when he hit the prisoner.”
“That’s healthy.”
“Were you scared?”
“No,” my father said. “What was the blood like?” I thought a minute.
“It was thick and smooth.”
“Blood is thicker than water,” my father said. “That’s the first proverb you run up against when you lead an active life.”
“It doesn’t mean that,” I said. “It means about family.”
“No,” said my father. “It means just that, but it always surprises you. I remember the first time I found it out.”
“When was that?”
“I felt my shoes full of it. It was very warm and thick. It was just like water in your rubber boots when we go duck hunting except it was warm and thicker and smoother.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, a long time ago,” said my father.
The Porter
“The Porter” is a scene from the same unfinished and untitled novel as “A Train Trip.”
WHEN WE WENT TO BED MY FATHER said I might as well sleep in the lower berth because I would want to look out the window early in the morning. He said an upper berth did not make any difference to him and he would come to bed after a while. I undressed and put my clothes in the hammock and put on pajamas and got into bed. I turned off the light and pulled up the window curtain but it was cold if I sat up to look out and lying down in bed I could not see anything. My father took a suitcase out from under my berth, opened it on the bed, took out his pajamas and tossed them up to the upper berth, then he took a book out and the bottle and filled his flask.
“Turn on the light,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I don’t need it. Are you sleepy, Jim?”
“I guess so.”
“Get a good sleep,” he said and closed the suitcase and put it back under the berth.
“Did you put your shoes out?”
“No,” I said. They were in the hammock and I got up to get them but he found them and put them out in the aisle. He shut the curtain.
“Aren’t you going to bed, sir?” the porter asked him.
“No,” my father said. “I’m going to read a while up in the washroom.”
“Yes, sir,” the porter said. It was fine lying between the sheets with the thick blanket pulled up and it all dark and the country dark outside. There was a screen across the lower part of the window that was open and the air came in cold. The green curtain was buttoned tight and the car swayed but felt very solid and was going fast and once in a while you would hear the whistle. I went to sleep and when I woke up I looked out and we were going very slowly and crossing a big river. There were lights shining on the water and the iron framework of a bridge going by the window and my father was getting into the upper berth.
“Are you awake, Jimmy?”
“Yes. Where are we?”
“We’re crossing into Canada now,” he said. “But in the morning we’ll be out of it.”
I looked out of the window to see Canada but all I could see were railway yards and freight cars. We stopped and two men came by with torches and stopped and hit on the wheels with hammers. I could not see anything but the men crouching over by the wheels and opposite us freight cars and I crawled down in bed again.
“Where are we in Canada?” I asked.
“Windsor,” my
father said. “Good night, Jim.”
When I woke up in the morning and looked out we were going through fine country that looked like Michigan only with higher hills and the trees were all turning. I got dressed in all but my shoes and reached under the curtain for them. They were shined and I put them on and unbuttoned the curtain and went out in the aisle. The curtains were buttoned all down the aisle and everybody seemed to be still asleep. I went down to the washroom and looked in. The nigger porter was asleep in one corner of the leather cushioned seat. His cap was down over his eyes and his feet were up on one of the chairs. His mouth was open, his head was tipped back and his hands were together in his lap. I went on to the end of the car and looked out but it was drafty and cindery and there was no place to sit down. I went back to the washroom and went in very carefully so as not to wake the porter and sat down by the window. The washroom smelt like brass spittoons in the early morning. I was hungry and I looked out of the window at the fall country and watched the porter asleep. It looked like good shooting country. There was lots of brush on the hills and patches of woods and fine looking farms and good roads. It was a different kind of looking country than Michigan. Going through it it all seemed to be connected and in Michigan one part of the country hasn’t any connection with another. There weren’t any swamps either and none of it looked burnt over. It all looked as though it belonged to somebody but it was nice looking country and the beeches and the maples were turned and there were lots of scrub oaks that had fine colored leaves too and when there was brush there was lots of sumac that was bright red. It looked like good country for rabbits and I tried to see some game but it went by too fast to concentrate looking and the only birds you could see were birds flying. I saw a hawk hunting over a field and his mate too. I saw flickers flying in the edge of the woods and I figured they were going south. I saw bluejays twice but the train was no good for seeing birds. It slid the country all sideways if you looked straight at anything and you had to just let it go by, looking ahead a little all the time. We passed a farm with a long meadow and I saw a flock of killdeer plover feeding. Three of them flew up when the train went by and circled off over the woods but the rest kept on feeding. We made a big curve so I could see the other cars curved ahead and the engine with the drive wheels going very fast away up ahead and a river valley down below us and then I looked around and the porter was awake and looking at me.
“What do you see?” he said.
“Not much.”
“You certainly do look at it.”
I did not say anything but I was glad he was awake. He kept his feet up on the chair but reached up and put his cap straight.
“That your father that stayed up here reading?”
“Yes.”
“He certainly can drink liquor.”
“He’s a great drinker.”
“He certainly is a great drinker. That’s it, a great drinker.”
I did not say anything.
“I had a couple with him,” the porter said. “And I got plenty of effect but he sat there half the night and never showed a thing.”
“He never shows anything,” I said.
“No sir. But if he keeps up that way he’s going to kill his whole insides.”
I did not say anything.
“You hungry, boy?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m very hungry.”
“We got a diner on now. Come on back and we’ll get a little something.”
We went back through two other cars, all with the curtains closed all along the aisles, to the diner and through the tables back to the kitchen.
“Hail fellow well met,” the porter said to the chef.
“Uncle George,” the chef said. There were four other niggers sitting at a table playing cards.
“How about some food for the young gentleman and myself?”
“No sir,” said the chef. “Not until I can get it ready.”
“Could you drink?” said George.
“No sir,” said the chef.
“Here it is,” said George. He took a pint bottle out of his side pocket. “Courtesy of the young gentleman’s father.”
“He’s courteous,” said the chef. He wiped his lips.
“The young gentleman’s father is the world’s champion.”
“At what?”
“At drinking.”
“He’s mighty courteous,” said the chef. “How did you eat last night?”
“With that collection of yellow boys.”
“They all together still?”
“Between Chicago and Detroit. We call ’em the White Eskimos now.”
“Well,” said the chef. “Everything’s got its place.” He broke two eggs on the side of a frying pan. “Ham and eggs for the son of the champion?”
“Thanks,” I said.
“How about some of that courtesy?”
“Yes sir.”
“May your father remain undefeated,” the chef said to me. He licked his lips. “Does the young gentleman drink too?”
“No sir,” said George. “He’s in my charge.”
The chef put the ham and eggs on two plates.
“Seat yourselves, gentlemen.”
George and I sat down and he brought us two cups of coffee and sat down opposite us.
“You willing to part with another example of that courtesy?”
“For the best,” said George. “We got to get back to the car. How is the railroad business?”
“Rails are firm,” said the chef. “How’s Wall Street?”
“The bears are bulling again,” said George. “A lady bear ain’t safe today.”
“Bet on the Cubs,” said the chef. “The Giants are too big for the league.”
George laughed and the chef laughed.
“You’re a very courteous fellow,” George said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Run along,” said the chef. “Lackawannius is calling you.”
“I love that girl,” said George. “Who touches a hair—”
“Run along,” said the chef. “Or those yellow boys will get you.”
“It’s a pleasure, sir,” said George. “It’s a very real pleasure.”
“Run along.”
“Just one more courteous action.”
The chef wiped his lips. “God speed the parting guest,” he said.
“I’ll be in for breakfast,” George said.
“Take your unearned increment,” the chef said. George put the bottle in his pocket.
“Good-bye to a noble soul,” he said.
“Get the hell out of here,” said one of the niggers who was playing cards.
“Good-bye, gentlemen all,” George said.
“Good night, sir,” said the chef. We went out.
We went back up to our car and George looked at the number board. There was a number twelve and a number five showing. George pulled a little thing down and the numbers disappeared.
“You better sit here and be comfortable,” he said.
I sat down in the washroom and waited and he went down the aisle. In a little while he came back.
“They’re all happy now,” he said. “How do you like the railroad business, Jimmy?”
“How did you know my name?”
“That’s what your father calls you, ain’t it?”
“Sure.”
“Well,” he said.
“I like it fine,” I said. “Do you and the chef always talk that way?”
“No, James,” he said. “We only talk that way when we’re enthused.”
“Just when you have a drink,” I said.
“Not that alone. When we’re enthused from any cause. The chef and I are kindred spirits.”
“What are kindred spirits?”
“Gentlemen with the same outlook on life.”
I did not say anything and the bell buzzed. George went out, pulled the little thing in the box and came back in the room.
“Did you ever see a man cut with a razor?”
; “No.”
“Would you like to have it explained?”
“Yes.”
The bell buzzed again. “I’d better go see,” George went out.
He came back and sat down by me. “The use of the razor,” he said, “is an art not alone known to the barbering profession.” He looked at me. “Don’t you make them big eyes,” he said. “I’m only lecturing.”
“I’m not scared.”
“I should say you’re not,” said George. “You’re here with your greatest friend.”
“Sure,” I said. I figured he was pretty drunk.
“Your father got a lot of this?” He took out the bottle.
“I don’t know.”
“Your father is a type of noble Christian gentleman.” He took a drink.
I didn’t say anything.
“Returning to the razor,” George said. He reached in the inside pocket of his coat and brought out a razor. He laid it closed on the palm of his left hand.
The palm was pink.
“Consider the razor,” George said. “It toils not, neither does it spin.”
He held it out on the palm of his hand. It had a black bone handle. He opened it up and held it in his right hand with the blade out straight.
“You got a hair from your head?”
“How do you mean?”
“Pull one out. My own are very tenacious.”
I pulled out a hair and George reached for it. He held it in his left hand looking at it carefully then flicked the razor and cut it in two. “Keenness of edge,” he said. Still looking at the little end of hair that was left he turned the razor in his hand and flicked the blade back the other direction. The blade cut the hair off close to his finger and thumb. “Simplicity of action,” George said. “Two admirable qualities.”
The buzzer rang and he folded the razor and handed it to me.
“Guard the razor,” he said and went out. I looked at it and opened it and shut it. It was just an ordinary razor. George came back and sat down beside me. He took a drink. There was no more in the bottle. He looked at it and put it back in his pocket.
“The razor, please,” he said. I handed it to him. He put it on the palm of his left hand.
“You have observed,” he said, “keenness of edge and simplicity of action. Now a greater than these two. Security of manipulation.”
The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway Page 72
