On the other side of the depot the hack drivers are crowding to the dead line, filling the air with cries. A pompous man, who never allows himself to be imposed upon when traveling, steps up to a carriage and slings his valise inside. “Drive me to the Lawlor Hotel,” he says, commandingly.
“But, sir,” says the driver. “The Lawlor is—”
“I don’t want any comments,” says the pompous man. “If you don’t want the job, say so.”
“I was just going to say that—”
“I know where I want to go, and if you think you know any better—”
“Jump in,” says the driver. “I’ll take you.”
The pompous man gets into the carriage; the driver mounts to his seat, whips up his horses, drives across the street, fully twenty-five yards away, opens the door and says: “Lawlor Hotel, sir; 50 cents, please.”
He gets a dollar instead, and promises to say nothing about it.
The carriages and omnibuses rattle away with their loads; other travelers straggle in for the next train, and when it arrives the Grand Central will repeat its little farce comedy with new actors, and new specialties and various readings between the lines.
(Houston Daily Post, Monday morning, December 16, 1895.)