"Ding, ding!"
For my part I haven't been able to figure it out, but Uncle Peter is the lad who has made a profound study of that street car proposition known as the End-Seat Hog.
I'm going to pass you out a talk he handed me a few evenings ago on that subject.
Pipe!
Suffering crumpets, John! I don't know anything about this end seat business, and the more I try to find out the more complex becomes the problem.
I've been up and down and over and across in the surface cars, John, and my experience is ornamented by ripped trousers and discolored shins, but my intellect blows out a fuse every time I try to dope out the real way not to be an End-Seat Hog.
Last Monday I jumped on an open-face car and it seemed that all the world was filled with joy and good wishes.
I was smoking one of those Bad Boy cigars. I call it a Bad Boy cigar because as soon as it goes out it gets awful noisy.
It was away uptown and the car was empty with the exception of a couple of benches.