No one was brave enough to climb the mountain which grew up between them and the promised land.
After a while I began to get a toothache in my conscience.
"Peter," I said to myself in a hoarse whisper, "perhaps after all you were the Hog because you moved over! After the lady had climbed over you she would have kept on to the other end of the bench where now there is nothing but a sullen space."
I began to insult myself.
"Peter," I exclaimed inwardly, "what do you know about the etiquette of the street car? According to the newspapers it is only a Man who can be a Hog on the street cars, and since you are the original cause of blockading the port when you moved over, you must be the Hog!"
Then I got so mad at myself that I refused to talk to myself any further.
The next day I was riding downtown on the end seat with my mind made up to stay there and keep the harbor open for commerce.
"Never," I said to myself, "never will anyone become a human Merrimac to bottle up the seating capacity of this particular bench while the blood flows through these veins and the flag of freedom waves above me."
At the next corner a very thin little gentleman squeezed by me with a look of reproach on his face the like of which I hope never to see again, but I was Charles J. Glue and firm in the end seat.
Then a couple of Italy's sunny sons by the names of Microbeini and Germicide crawled over me and kicked their initials on my knee-cap and then sat down to enjoy a smoke of domestic rope which fell across my nostrils and remained there in bitterness.