“No,” said Mr. Schofield. “What’s that?”
“Well,” said Nixon, chuckling to himself, “the railroads, as you know, never waste a thought on the comfort or safety of their employees—”
“No, of course not,” agreed Mr. Schofield, ironically.
“All they think of is earnings an’ big salaries for the officers. One of the most inhuman afflictions which freight conductors and brakemen have to put up with in modern times is the caboose. Have you ever ridden in a caboose?”
“Hundreds of times!”
“Oh, I forgot,” said Nixon, grinning, “I thought I was addressin’ the legislature. I was goin’ to paint for them the torture of ridin’ in a caboose, the impossibility of sleepin’ there; how a few years of it wrecks a man’s health, and so forth.”
“I see you’re a good hand at fancy pictures,” said the superintendent, drily.
“A man has to be to hold my job,” said Nixon, with a broad grin. “But, cuttin’ all that out, the bill compels the railroads to use no caboose less’n forty feet in length. The berths must be comfortable an’ sanitary, with the sheets changed every trip. There must be all the toilet conveniences—”
“Why not compel us to hitch a Pullman to every freight train, with porter and everything complete?” inquired the superintendent.
“Oh, no,” protested Nixon, waving his hand. “We’re reasonable. We don’t want anything but our rights.”