There was a newly-married couple in our car, and of course lots of us were more or less interested in their carrying-on.
Once the train plunged through a tunnel, and I suppose the newly-made Benedict took advantage of the golden opportunity to kiss his spouse.
"Morris-sinia!" yelled the brakeman as we came to daylight again.
"I don't care if he did," snapped the woman, "we're married."
At our first stop in a bustling town up in York State I was in the box office, when I was addressed by a young man who in hollow tones declared he had heard that to see so great an actor as myself was good for any form of ailment.
"You might help me," the young man declared with labored breathing; "anyway, I'd like to enjoy myself once more before I die. I have consumption, you know. Could you let me have a pass?"
I couldn't help but feel sorry for such a woebegone-looking, hard-luck chap, so I at once wrote him out a pass.
The man took the card, looked at it, coughed even more distressfully than before, and asked: