“Dis, you call dis fest drrevels in America,” he said. “Dere is going to be do-night ah dance I should miss it?”
“Give us a tune, Trotsky,” called a young West Pointer who was sitting on a seat arm watching the card game.
“It’s just like camping,” said the young girl, merrily.
“I almost feel I would prefer camping to this,” said her mother, with good-humored resignation.
“Anything would be better than this,” ejaculated Mr. A. Pylor Koyn. “The grave would be better than this. I come into the country for a few days’ rest and quiet, and simple, wholesome food, and here I am starving! Not a bite to eat since we left Skinner City. Fresh air! Why it’s worse than the subway in here. I’ll suffocate if this keeps on. Not a drop of water in the cooler! This is awful—simply awful. Ten minutes more and I’ll get out and walk.”
“I’d have gotten out half an hour ago if it wasn’t for the fog,” said the young officer. “Stepping out of this train here would be like stepping out of a submarine.”
“No submarine was ever like this,” said one of the young card players, cheerily.
“I could go to Philadelphia and back—” began Mr. Koyn.
“They can’t stop the fog,” reasoned the other card player.
“They can stop broken couplings and hot boxes and they can have lights on their locomotives instead of kitchen lamps,” Mr. Koyn blustered.