“Good-bye, poor woman.”
I looked at the “poor woman” to mark the effect of the farewell. She was leaning towards the heater, with her chin resting on her hands. There was a bitter expression on her face. I thought I saw a tear glistening on her cheek, but before I could satisfy myself as to this good sign she rose abruptly and left. I saw her slink through the crowd, the scoff of men and the scorn of women, away along the platform, through the archway, out into the dark streets, amongst the lost whence she came.
CHAPTER XXII.
MORE ABOUT THE UNION STATION.
The vast, smoky building facing the Esplanade between York and Simcoe streets is a great theater in which are enacted some of the strangest scenes in life in this city. Through it day and night a tide of human life with all its joy and misery, with all its wealth and poverty, flows continually. East, west and north, day and night, trains go thundering on their way, infusing fresh blood and vigor throughout all the land. The station and its surroundings are like some mighty fort stocked with inexhaustible supplies, sending out hourly sorties against the unlocked resources of a great country, and coming back triumphantly, laden with spoil for the enriching of the nations. At almost any hour of the day or night the scene at the Union station is an interesting one, especially to the student of human nature. Here are to be seen people of all nationalities, Canadians and Americans predominant of course, but in the busy throng can often be seen Swedes, Norwegians, Italians, Greeks, Hungarians, Danes, Germans, Spaniards, Frenchmen, Gipsies and Jews, mingling strangely under the great roof. The most interesting scenes are those witnessed on the arrival and departure of the great express trains for the east and west. Early in the morning the big express for Montreal and all points east leaves the station. For an hour beforehand the yard men begin to “make up” the train and the people arrive. Sitting patiently on their dunnage bags and rough boxes in a corner are a group of
FRENCH CANADIAN LUMBERMEN
on their way home to Quebec from the Michigan pineries. Their faces are all bright with the expectation of being so soon back with the old folks at home, all bright, expectant and happy, save one, who sits with his chin in his hands and a look of sadness on his swarthy face. And why? Because Baptiste, his young, his only brother, who had accompanied him to the woods full of strong life and hope had been struck dead by a falling tree not a month ago, and lay in a nameless grave beneath the dark shadows of the Michigan woods. And this has taken all the joy and light from the homecoming of Louis, who is wondering how he will face the old mother at home and tell her for the first time of the tragedy which has robbed her of her best-loved child. The crowd begins to thicken along the platform. As I walk down through them I notice a party of prominent politicians in a group, and on enquiry I learn that they are a deputation to Ottawa for the purpose of interviewing the government, which will doubtless take their suggestions into its most serious consideration. Here is a portly merchant on his way to Montreal to look after large consignments of goods, and to the last moment is closely attended by his clerk, to whom he continually pours forth instructions. The nobby gentleman, nonchalantly smoking his cigar as he coolly paces up and down, is a
COMMERCIAL TRAVELER
about to launch himself on the unsuspecting country merchant. He has just seen that his cases of samples have been put on board, he travels according to the commercial tariff, the little leather bag contains luxuries for the trip, and he feels perfectly confident and at home. He chats with the conductor, nods to the brakesman, and offers a cigar to the porter of the Pullman. As he stops to adjust his glasses, he rolls his cigar in his mouth and looks up at the murky ceiling with the air of a man who is ready for anything or anybody. These young fellows you see there are students on their way home. By their looks they have spent their last night in Toronto in great shape, and even now they appear somewhat enthusiastic as they pace to and fro arm in arm. Here is a lady bound for the distant burgh of Oshawa. She is loaded down with flower-pots and parcels. She is red in the face, and her nose is sharp. She is industriously trotting up and down after an official. The official is industriously scurrying here and there to keep out of her way. Finally, by a skilful flank movement, she captures him, and with an air of triumph, enquires:
“What time does the 7.45 train go out, sir?”