"Yes. That's the agent over there by the radiator."
One American dollar accomplished it—a silver one; they don't use any other kind of money out West.
When No. 32 hove in sight—the Fast Mail is its proper name—and stopped opposite the small station at Adrian, a blessed, beloved, be-capped, be-buttoned and be-overcoated Pullman porter—an attentive, considerate, alert porter—emerged from it and at a sign from me picked up my overcoat and grip—they now weighed a ton apiece—and with a wave of his hand conducted me into a well-swept, well-ordered Pullman.
"Porter, what's your name?" I inquired. (I always ask a porter his name.)
"Samuel Thomas, sah."
"Sam, is there a berth left?"
"Yes, sah—No. 9 lower."
"Is it in order?"
"Yes, sah—made up for a gem'man at South Bend, but he didn't show up."