Mr. Hunt finds himself on the corner of Brimstone Avenue and Ripsnort Place, where he sees that type of street-car conductor who, if he did not happen to feel in the mood, would not stop his car as you stood gesticulating wildly for his attention. Chained to a red hot griddle, where the cars pass continually to and from the foot-ball games, he shouts in vain to the grip-fiend and Demon-passengers for relief.
He is lucky if nothing worse is hurled at him than a hoarse mocking laugh.
A HAUGHTY CONDUCTOR.
CANTO XLV.
Coming to a spot where the plain, spoken of in the preceding Canto, terminates in an almost perpendicular steep, the traveller discovers through the thick fog hovering below the dim outline of the battlements surrounding the female department. On seeing a sign “No gentlemen admitted,” his native chivalry causes him to retire without investigating the prohibited region.
