"Right next to a lot of women, I'll bet. Couldn't you put me in the men's end of the car?"
"Not ve'y well, suh. I reckon the cah is done sold out."
With a growl of rage, Ira Lathrop slammed into the seat his entire hand baggage, one ancient and rusty valise.
The porter gazed upon him with increased depression. The passenger list had opened inauspiciously with two of the worst types of travelers the Anglo-Saxon race has developed.
But their anger was not their worst trait in the porter's eyes. He was, in a limited way, an expert in human character.
When you meet a stranger you reveal your own character in what you ask about his. With some, the first question is, "Who are his people?" With others, "What has he achieved?" With others, "How much is he worth?" Each gauges his cordiality according to his estimate.
The porter was not curious on any of these points. He showed a democratic indifference to them. His one vital inquiry was:
"How much will he tip?"
His inspection of his first two charges promised small returns. He buttoned up his cordiality, and determined to waste upon them the irreducible minimum of attention.
It would take at least a bridal couple to restore the balance. But bridal couples in their first bloom rarely fell to the lot of that porter, for what bridal couple wants to lock itself in with a crowd of passengers for the first seventy-two hours of wedded bliss?