"Yes," said the second commuter, "I was missing too many trains. The old brand required three seconds to prepare. You can fix this new brand in a second and a half."
After the sermon on Sunday morning the rector welcomed and shook hands with a young German.
"And are you a regular communicant?" said the rector. "Yes," said the German: "I take the 7:45 every morning."—M.L. Hayward.
A suburban train was slowly working its way through one of the blizzards of 1894. Finally it came to a dead stop and all efforts to start it again were futile.
In the wee, small hours of the morning a weary commuter, numb from the cold and the cramped position in which he had tried to sleep, crawled out of the train and floundered through the heavy snow-drifts to the nearest telegraph station. This is the message he handed to the operator:
"Will not be at office to-day. Not home yesterday yet."
A nervous commuter on his dark, lonely way home from the railroad station heard footsteps behind him. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being followed. He increased his speed. The footsteps quickened accordingly. The commuter darted down a lane. The footsteps still pursued him. In desperation he vaulted over a fence and, rushing into a churchyard, threw himself panting on one of the graves.