CHAPTER II
THE EARLY BIRDS AND THE WORM
In the enormous barn of the railroad station stood many strings ofcars, as if a gigantic young Gulliver stabled his toys there andinvisibly amused himself; now whisking this one away, now backing thatother in.
Some of the trains were noble equipages, fitted to glide across thewhole map with cargoes of Lilliputian millionaires and theirLilliputian ladies. Others were humble and shabby linked-upday-coaches and dingy smoking-cars, packed with workers, like ants.
Cars are mere vehicles, but locomotives have souls. The expressengines roll in or stalk out with grandeur and ease. They are likeemperors. They seem to look with scorn at the suburban enginessnorting and grunting and shaking the arched roof with their plebeianchoo-choo as they puff from shop to cottage and back.
The trainmen take their cue from the behavior of their locomotives.The conductor of a transcontinental nods to the conductor of ashuttle-train with less cordiality than to a brakeman of his own. Theengineers of the limiteds look like senators in overalls. They arefar-traveled men, leading a mighty life of adventure. They are pilotsof land-ships across land-oceans. They have a right to a certaincondescension of manner.
But no one feels or shows so much arrogance as the sleeping carporters. They cannot pronounce "supercilious," but they can be it.Their disdain for the entire crew of any train that carries merelyday-coaches or half-baked chair-cars, is expressed as only a darkey ina uniform can express disdain for poor white trash.
Of all the haughty porters that ever curled a lip, the haughtiest byfar was the dusky attendant in the San Francisco sleeper on theTrans-American Limited. His was the train of trains in that wholesystem. His car the car of cars. His passengers the surpassengers ofall.
His train stood now waiting to set forth upon a voyage of two thousandmiles, a journey across seven imperial States, a journey that shouldend only at that marge where the continent dips and vanishes under thebreakers of the Pacific Ocean.
At the head of his car, with his little box-step waiting for the footof the first arrival, the porter stood, his head swelling under hiscap, his breast swelling beneath his blue blouse, with its brassbuttons like reflections of his own eyes. His name was EllsworthJefferson, but he was called anything from "Poarr-turr" to "Pawtah,"and he usually did not come when he was called.
To-night he was wondering perhaps what passengers, with whatdispositions, would fall to his lot. Perhaps he was wondering what hisChicago sweetheart would be doing in the eight days before his return.Perhaps he was wondering what his San Francisco sweetheart had beendoing in the five days since he left her, and how she would pass thethree 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 andcolleague of the Portland sleeper.
Suddenly he stopped in the midst of a soaring chuckle.
"Lordy, man, looky what's a-comin'!"
The Portland porter turned to gaze.
"I got my fingers crossed."
"I hope you git him."
"I hope I don't."
"He'll work you hard and cuss you out, and he won't give you even aMuch Obliged."
"That's right. He ain't got a usher to carry his things. And he's gotenough to fill a van."
The oncomer was plainly of English origin. It takes all sorts ofpeople to make up the British Empire, and there is no sortlacking--glorious or pretty, or sour or sweet. But this was the typeof English globe-trotter that makes himself as unpopular amongforeigners as he is among his own people. He is almost as unendurableas the Americans abroad who twang their banjo brag through Europe, andberate France and Italy for their innocence of buckwheat cakes.
The two porters regarded Mr. Harold Wedgewood with dread, as he boredown on them. He was almost lost in the plethora of his own luggage.He asked for the San Francisco sleeper, and the Portland porter had toturn away to smother his gurgling relief.
Ellsworth Jefferson's heart sank. He made a feeble effort atself-protection. The Pullman conductor not being present at themoment, he inquired:
"Have you got yo' ticket?"
"Of cawse."
"Could I 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 amountain unloading an avalanche. The porter stumbled as he clamberedup the steps, and squeezed through the strait path of the corridorinto the slender aisle. He turned again and again to question theinvader, but he was motioned and bunted down the car, till he washalted with a "This will do."
The Englishman selected section three for his own. The porterventured: "Are you sho' this is yo' numba?"
"Of cawse I'm shaw. How dare you question my----"
"I wasn't questionin' you, boss, I was just astin' you."
He resigned himself to the despot, and began to transfer his burdensto the seat. But he did nothing to the satisfaction of the Englishman.Everything must be placed otherwise; the catch-all here, theportmanteau there, the Gladstone there, the golfsticks there, thegreatcoat there, the raincoat there. The porter was puffing like adonkey-engine, and mutiny was growing in his heart. His lastcommission was the hanging up of the bowler hat.
He stood on the arm of the seat to reach the high hook. From here hepaused to glare down with an attempt at irony.
"Is they anything else?"
"No. You may get down."
The magnificent patronage of this wilted the porter completely. Hereturned to the lower level, and shuffled along the aisle in a trance.He was quickly recalled by a sharp:
"Pawtah!"
"Yassah!"
"What time does this bally train start?"
"Ten-thutty, sah."
"But it's only ten now."
"Yassah. It'll be ten-thutty a little later."
"Do you mean to tell me that I've got to sit hyah for half anhour--just waitin'?"
The porter essayed another bit of irony:
"Well," he drawled, "I might tell the conducta you're ready. And mebbehe'd start the train. But the time-table says ten-thutty."
He watched the effect of his satire, but it fell back unheeded fromthe granite dome of the Englishman, whose only comment was:
"Oh, never mind. I'll wait."
The porter cast his eyes up in despair, and turned away, once more tobe recalled.
"Oh, pawtah!"
"Yassah!"
"I think we'll put on my slippahs."
"Will we?"
"You might hand me that large bag. No, stupid, the othah one. Youmight open it. No, its in the othah one. Ah, that's it. You may set itdown."
Mr. Wedgewood brought forth a soft cap and a pair of red slippers. Theporter made another effort to escape, his thoughts as black as hisface. Again the relentless recall:
"Oh, pawtah, I think we'll unbutton my boots."
He was too weak to murmur "Yassah." He simply fell on one knee and gotto work.
There was a witness to his helpless rage--a newcomer, the Americancounterpart of the Englishman in all that makes travel difficult forthe fellow travelers. Ira Lathrop was zealous to resent anything shortof perfection, quick and loud of complaint, apparently impossible toplease.
In everything else he was the opposite of the Englishman. He wasburly, middle-aged, rough, careless in attire, careless of speech--asuncouth and savage as one can well be who is plainly a man of means.
It was not enough that a freeborn Afro-American should be caughtkneeling to an Englishman. But when he had escaped this penance, andadvanced hospitably to the newcomer, he must be greeted with a snarl.
"Say, are you the porter of this car, or that man's nurse?"
"I can't tell yet. What's yo' numba, please?"
The answer was the ticket. The porter screwed up his eyes to read thepencilled scrawl.
"Numba s
e'm. Heah she is, boss."
"Right next to a lot of women, I'll bet. Couldn't you put me in themen's end of the car?"
"Not ve'y well, suh. I reckon the cah is done sold out."
With a growl of rage, Ira Lathrop slammed into the seat his entirehand baggage, one ancient and rusty valise.
The porter gazed upon him with increased depression. The passengerlist had opened inauspiciously with two of the worst types oftravelers the Anglo-Saxon race has developed.
But their anger was not their worst trait in the porter's eyes. Hewas, in a limited way, an expert in human character.
When you meet a stranger you reveal your own character in what you askabout his. With some, the first question is, "Who are his people?"With others, "What has he achieved?" With others, "How much is heworth?" Each gauges his cordiality according to his estimate.
The porter was not curious on any of these points. He showed ademocratic indifference to them. His one vital inquiry was:
"How much will he tip?"
His inspection of his first two charges promised small returns. Hebuttoned up his cordiality, and determined to waste upon them theirreducible minimum of attention.
It would take at least a bridal couple to restore the balance. Butbridal couples in their first bloom rarely fell to the lot of thatporter, for what bridal couple wants to lock itself in with a crowdof passengers for the first seventy-two hours of wedded bliss?
The porter banished the hope as a vanity. Little he knew how eagerlythe young castaways from that wrecked taxicab desired to be a bridalcouple, and to catch this train.
But the Englishman was restive again:
"Pawtah! I say, pawtah!"
"Yassah!"
"What time are we due in San Francisco?"
"San Francisco? San Francisco? We are doo thah the evenin' of thefo'th day. This bein' Monday, that ought to bring us in abote Thuzzdayevenin'."
The Yankee felt called upon to check the foreign usurper.
"Porrterr!"
"Yassah!"
"Don't let that fellow monopolize you. He probably won't tip you atall."
The porter grew confidential:
"Oh, I know his kind, sah. They don't tip you for what you do do, butthey're ready letter writers to the Sooperintendent for what you don'tdo."
"Pawtah! I say, pawtah!"
"Here, porrterr."
The porter tried to imitate the Irish bird, and be in two places atonce. The American had a coin in his hand. The porter caught thegleam of it, and flitted thither. The Yankee growled:
"Don't forget that I'm on the train, and when we get to 'Frisco theremay be something more."
The porter had the coin in his hand. Its heft was light. He sighed: "Ihope so."
The Englishman was craning his head around owlishly to ask:
"I say, pawtah, does this train ever get wrecked?"
"Well, it hasn't yet," and he murmured to the Yankee, "but I hashopes."
The Englishman's voice was querulous again.
"I say, pawtah, open a window, will you? The air is ghastly,abso-ripping-lutely ghastly."
The Yankee growled:
"No wonder we had the Revolutionary War!"
Then he took from his pocket an envelope addressed to Ira Lathrop &Co., and from the envelope he took a contract, and studied it grimly.The envelope bore a Chinese stamp.
The porter, as he struggled with an obstinate window, wondered whatsort of passenger fate would send him next.
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