I was having a siesta one day in one of the comfortable arm-chairs of a drawing-room car, when the conductor came along and, giving me a formidable thump, cried out in the most savage tone:
"Your ticket!"
I made haste to oblige him, and to offer apologies.
"I trust I have not kept you waiting," said I.
He went away quite crestfallen.
You see, in America, you must be polite to everyone, or you would constantly be running the risk of treating with disrespect a future President.
Another day I was in a New York local train. These trains have not drawing-room cars with smoking-rooms attached. Neither first, second, nor third class: all the carriages are alike. I addressed the conductor, asking him where I should find the smoking-compartment. In reply, he murmured a few unintelligible words between his teeth. In my humblest, sweetest accents, I said:
"Excuse me, I did not hear."
He shouted at me at the top of his voice:
"Be—hind—the—lo—co—mo—tive; do you hear this time?"