Magnificent instinct of a woman! For Bertha had never heard of a director's pass nor contemplated the exigency.
"Pass?" said the great man. "Well, yes—pass? I suppose I have." And from the depths of an inside pocket a gigantic pocket-book appeared. From its depths, with just the least unnecessary display of greenbacks, a printed envelope appeared. From its depths a pink ticket, large and clean, appeared. "How will that do, my man?"
For all Bertha could see, the pass might have been in Sanskrit. Her eyes, indeed, were beginning to brim over. But she walked to the light, looked at the pass, said "All right" as she gave it back, and took out her own note-book to enter the free passenger.
"You've not been long on the line?" said the old gentleman fussily.
"Not very long, sir."
"Well, my lad"—more fussily—"you have done perfectly right—perfectly. I hope all the conductors are as careful. I shall name you to Mr. Beal. What is your number?"
Bertha pointed to her jaunty cap, and said "537" at the same moment. The old gentleman took down the number, and did not forget his promise.
The next day he talked to the superintendent an hour, to that worthy's great disgust. When Mr. Siebenhold left the office at last, the superintendent said to the cashier, "The old fool wanted 'to recommend No. 537.' I did not tell him that we only have three hundred and thirty men."
So Bertha passed her worst trial, as she thought it then. But a harder test was in store.