Gent. "Are the sandwiches fresh, my boy?"
Country Youth. "Don't know, I'm sure, sir. I've only been here a fortnight!"
Station-Master. "Now then! Look alive with they dougs! Where are you——"
Overdriven Porter. "Hoots! they've a' eaten their tuck'ts, an' dinna ken fa the're gaen tae!"
Shrewd Clerk (with an eye to his percentage). "Take an accident insurance ticket, sir?"
Passenger (nervously). "Wha' for?!"
Clerk. "Well, sir, nothing has gone wrong 'twixt this and London for the last fourteen months; and, by the haverages, the next smash on the hup line is hoverdue exactly six weeks and three days!!"
[Old Gent forks out with alacrity.
Puff me away from the noise and the worry;
Puff me away from the desolate town;
Puff me—but don't be in too great a hurry;
Puff me, but don't in a tunnel break down.
Puff me away to my loved Isle of Thanet
Swiftly—or e'en at the pace called the snail's,
Puff me the sea-breeze, and pleasantly fan it
Into my nostrils—but don't leave the rails.
Puff me away, far from Parliament's houses;
For brown moors of Scotland my soul is athirst—
For a smell of the heather, a pop at the grouses;
Puff me, but mind that your boiler don't burst.
Puff me en route for care-killing Killarney,
Tenderly take me, as bridegroom his bride;
Bear me towards Erin, blest birthplace of Blarney,
Puff, puff, like blazes—but, please, don't "collide!"
Customer (Time—Saturday afternoon). "I don't want all coppers in change for that shilling. Haven't you got any silver?"
Newsboy. "All right, sir. Want a little Sunday money, I s'pose, sir?"
At first I loved thee—thou wast warm,—
The porter called thee "'ot," nay, "bilin'."
I tipped him as thy welcome form
He carried, with a grateful smile, in.
Alas! thou art a faithless friend,
Thy warmth was but dissimulation;
Thy tepid glow is at an end,
And I am nowhere near my station!
I shiver, cold in feet and hands,
It is a legal form of slaughter,
They don't warm (!) trains in other lands
With half a pint of tepid water.
I spurn thy coldness with a kick,
And pile on rugs as my protectors,
I'd send—to warm them—to Old Nick,
Thy parsimonious directors!
Different Ways of Travelling.—Man travels to expand his ideas; but woman—judging from the number of boxes she invariably takes with her—travels only with the object of expanding her dresses.
Rude Boy (to stout party on weighing-machine, which is out of order, and won't work). "Shove in another penny, guv'nor. It's double fare to chaps o' your size!"
Railway Porter (to old lady travelling with a menagerie of pets). "'Station-master say, mum, as cats is 'dogs,' and rabbits is 'dogs,' and so's parrots; but this ere 'tortis' is a insect, so there ain't no charge for it!"
Stout Party. "What! no room! Ain't that man just got out? If people can get out, people can get in!"
Scene—Interior of Third-Class Smoking Compartment. First Passenger, apparently a small Suburban Tradesman, of a full and comfortable habit, seated by window. To him enters a seedy but burly Stranger, in a state of muzzy affability, with an under-suggestion of quarrelsomeness.
The Stranger (leaning forward mysteriously). Yer saw that gentleman I was a torkin' to as I got in? Did yer know 'oo he was?
First Passenger (without hauteur, but with the air of a person who sets a certain value on his conversation). Well, he didn't look much like the Archbishop of Canterbury.
The S. He's a better man than 'im! That was Brasher, the middling weight! he giv me the orfice straight about Killivan and Smifton, he did!
First P. (interested, as a lover of the Noble Art of Self Defence). Ah! did he, though?
The S. He did; I went up to him, and I sez, "Excuse me," I sez, like that, I sez, "but are you an American, or a German?"
First P. (with superiority). He wouldn't like that—being taken for a German.
The S. (solemnly). Those were my very words! And he sez, "No, I'm a Yank," and then I knoo 'oo 'e was, d'ye see? and so (hazily) one word brought up another, and we got a torkin'. If I was to tell you I'd seen Killivan, I should be tellin' yer a lie!
First P. Well, I won't ask you to do that.
The S. (firmly). Nor I wouldn't. But you've on'y to look at Smifton to see 'e's never 'ad a smack on the 'ed. Now, there's Sulton—'e's a good man, 'e is—'e is a good man! Look 'ow that feller knocks 'isself about! But if I was to pass my opinion, it 'ud be this—Killivan's in it for science, he ain't in it to take anything; you may take that from me!
First P. (objecting to be treated as an ingénu). It's not the first time I've heard of it, by a long way.
The S. Ah! and it's the truth, the Bible truth (putting his hand on First P.'s knee). Now, you b'leeve what I'm a'goin' to tell yer?
First P. (his dignity a little ruffled). I will—if it's anything in reason.
The S. It's this: My opinion of Killivan and Sulton's this—Sulton brought Killivan out. I'm on'y tellin' yer from 'earsay, like; but I know this myself—one lived in 'Oxton, and the other down Bermondsey way. 'E's got a nice little butcher's business there at this present moment; and 'e's a mug if 'e turns it up!
First P. (axiomatically). Every man's a mug who turns a good business up.
The S. Yer right! And (moralising) it ain't all 'oney with that sort o' people, neither, I can tell yer! I dessay, now, when all's put to the test, you're not a moneyed man—no more than I am myself?
First P. (not altogether flattered). Well—that's as may be.
The S. But I b'leeve yer to be a man o' the world, although I don't know yer.
First P. (modestly). I used to be in it at one time.
The S. (confidentially). I'm in it now. I don't get my livin' by it, though, mind yer. I'm a mechanic, I am—to a certain extent. I've been in America. There's a country now—they don't over-tax like they do 'ere!
First P. (sympathetically). There you 'ave touched a point—we're taxed past all common sense. Why, this very tobacco I'm smoking now is charged——
The S. Talkin' of terbaccer, I don't mind 'aving a pipe along with yer myself.
First P. (handing his pouch with a happy mixture of cordiality and condescension). There you are, then.
The S. (afflicted by sudden compunction as he fills his pipe). I 'ope I'm not takin' a libbaty in askin yer?
First P. Liberty? rubbish! I'm not one to make distinctions where I go. I'd as soon talk to one man as I would another—you're setting your coat alight.
The S. I set fire to myself once, and I never live in 'opes of doing so agen! It's a funny thing with me, I can smoke a cigar just as well as I could a short pipe. I'm no lover of a cigar, if you understand me; but I can go into company where they are, d'ye see?
First P. (shortly). I see.
The S. (with fresh misgivings). You'll excuse me if I've taken a libbaty with yer!
First P. (with a stately air). We settled all that just now.
The S. (after a scrutiny). I tell yer what my idear of you is—that you're a Toff!
First P. (disclaiming this distinction a little uneasily). No, no—there's nothing of the toff about me!
The S. (defiantly). Well, you're a gentleman, anyway?
First P. (aphoristic, but uncomfortable). We can all of us be that, so long as we behave ourselves.
The S. (much pleased by this sentiment). Right agen! give us yer 'and—if it's not takin a libbaty. I'm one of them as can't bear to take a libbaty with no matter 'oo. Yer know it's a real pleasure to me to be settin' 'ere torkin' comfortably to you, without no thought of either of us fallin' out. There's some people as wouldn't feel 'appy, not without they was 'aving a row. Now you and me ain't like that!
First P. (shifting about). Quite so—quite so, of course!
The S. Not but what if it was to come to a row between us, I could take my part!
First P. (wishing there was somebody else in the compartment). I—I hope we'll keep off that.
The S. (devoutly). So do I! I 'ope we'll keep off o' that. But yer never know what may bring it on—and there it is, d'ye see! You and me might fall out without intending it. I've bin a bit of a boxer in my day. Do you doubt my word?—if so, say it to my face!
First P. I've no wish to offend you, I'm sure.
The S. I never take a lie straight from any man, and there you 'ave me in a word! If you're bent on a row, you'll find me a glutton, that's all I can tell you!
First P. (giving himself up for lost). But I'm not bent on a row—qu—quite otherwise!
The S. You should ha' said so afore, because, when my back's once put up, I'm—'ello! we're stopping, I get out 'ere, don't I?
First P. (eagerly). Yes—make haste, they don't stay long anywhere on this line!
The S. (completely mollified). Then I'll say good-bye to yer. (Tenderly.) P'raps we may meet agen, some day.
First P. We—we'll hope so—good day to you, wish you luck!
The S. (solemnly). Lord love yer! (Pausing at door.) I 'ope you don't think me the man to fall out with nobody. I never fall out——
[Falls out into the arms of a porter, whom he pummels as the train moves on, and First Passenger settles into a corner with a sigh of relief.
Somerset Rustic (on seeing the signal drop). "Ar don't know if it'd make any difference, maister, but thic ther' bit o' board of yourn 'ave a fallen down!"
Foreign Husband (whose wife is going to remain longer). "Gif me two dickets. Von for me to come back, and von for my vife not to come back!"
Lady (who has just entered carriage, to friend). "Fancy finding you in the train! Why couldn't I have met you yesterday, now? I had such a wretched journey! But one never does meet people when one wants to!"
Shouting heard—engine whistles frantically—breaks applied violently—train stops—accident, no doubt—alarm of first-class passengers—stout gent flies at communicator—child shrieks—terrified lady calls out, "Help! guard! What is it? Let us out!"
Guard. "Oh, no fear, miss. On'y driver he just see a lot o' fine mushyroons, miss, and we——he like 'em for breakfast. All right! Away y' go!!"
Traveller. "Now then, boy, where's the clerk who gives the ticket?"
Boy (after finishing an air he was whistling). "I'm the clerk."
Traveller. "Well, sir! And what time does the train leave for London?"
Boy. "Oh, I don't know. No time in pertickler. Sometimes one time—and sometimes another."
He determines to try the automatic photographing machine, the station being empty. To his dismay a crowd has gathered, and watches the operation.
Workman (politely, to old lady, who has accidentally got into a smoking compartment). "You don't object to my pipe, I 'ope, mum?"
Old Lady. "Yes, I do object, very strongly!"
Workman. "Oh! Then out you get!!"
Scene—Reserved Carriage on the London and Utopian Railway. Female Traveller in possession. Enter, suddenly, a Male Traveller.
Male Traveller. A thousand apologies! I really nearly missed my train, so was obliged to take refuge in this carriage. Trust I don't intrude.
Fem. T. (after a pause). As you have no one to present you, I must ask "if you are any lady's husband?"
Male T. (with a sigh). Alas, no! I am a wretched bachelor!
Fem. T. (drily). That is nothing out of the common. I have been given to understand that all bachelors are miserable.
Male T. No doubt your husband agrees with the opinion?
Fem. T. (calmly). I have no experience. I am a spinster.
Male T. (smiling). Indeed! And you selected a ladies' carriage?
Fem. T. (quickly). Because there was no room anywhere else.
Male T. Well, well! At the next station I can get into a smoking compartment.
Fem. T. Surely there is no need to take so much trouble.
Male T. Why! don't you object to a cigar?
Fem. T. Not in the least. The fact is, I smoke myself!
[Red fire and tobacco.
Male T. (after a pause). I have it on my conscience to make a correction. I said just now that I was not somebody's husband.
Fem. T. (annoyed). Then you are married!
Male T. (with intention). Well, not yet. But if you like you can receive me as somebody's betrothed.
Fem. T. (regardless of grammar). Who's somebody?
Male T. (smiling). Think of your own name.
Fem. T. What next?
Male T. Why, give it to me; and if you like you shall have mine in exchange. (Train arrives at a station.)
Guard (without). All change!
[And later on they do.
Affable Old Gentleman (who has half a minute to spare). "I suppose now, my boy, you take a good sum of money during the day?"
Shoeblack. "Yessur, 'cause lots o' gintleman, when they wants to ketch a train, gives me sixpence!"
[Old gent finds the sixpence, but in thinking over it afterwards, couldn't see the connection.
"Hi, guv'nor, there ain't no station named on this ticket!"
"No; all our tickets are alike."
"Then, 'ow do I know where I'm going?"
Stout Party (rather hot). "Hope you don't find the breeze too much, sir?"
Fellow Passenger. "Oh! not at all, sir! I rather like it!"
Traveller (to Irish porter labelling luggage). "Don't you keep a brush for that work, porter?"
Porter. "No, yer honour. Our tongues is the only insthrumints we're allowed. But—they're aisy kep' wet, yer honour!"
[Hint taken.
"Look out for squalls"—on land or sea—
Where duty or where pleasure calls,
A golden rule it seems to be,
Look out for squalls.
Yet in a train that slowly crawls
Somehow it most appeals to me.
For then sometimes, it so befalls,
An infant on its mother's knee
In my compartment Fate installs—
Which makes a nervous man, you see,
Look out for squalls!
Delays are dangerous.
A train in time saves nine.
Live and let live.
After a railway excursion, the doctor.
Do not halloo till you are out of the train.
Between two trains we fall to the ground.
Fire and water make good servants but bad masters.
A director is known by the company he keeps.
A railway train is the thief of time.
There is no place like home—but the difficulty is to get there.
The farther you go, the worse is your fare.
It's the railway pace that kills.
The great charm about a railway accident is that, no matter how many lives are lost, "no blame is ever attached to any one."
A railway is long, but life is short—and generally the longer a railway, the shorter your life.
A Distinction with a Difference.—Disappointed Porter (to Mate). I thought you said he was a gentleman.
Mate. No, that's where you mistook me. I said he was a gent.
Sylvanus. "Foxes are scarce in my country; but we manage it with a drag now and then!"
Urbanus. "Oh—er—yes. But how do you get it over the fences?"
Porter. "Now, marm, will you please to move, or was you corded to your box?"
Jack Ashore. "Bill, just keep a heye on my jewel-case 'ere while I go and get the tickets. There's a lot o' sharks always cruisin' about these railway stations, I've heard!"
Guard. "Where are you for?"
Old Gent. "I'm oright—Edgware Road."
Guard. "Well, mind you get out this time. You've been round three times!"
We have often been struck with the difference of manner assumed by railway officials towards different people. Shut your eyes, and you can tell from the tone of their voices whom they are addressing. The following examples will best illustrate our meaning. The railway potentate is calling upon the passengers to get their tickets ready. He calls:
To the Third Class.—Fortissimè.—"Tickets, tickets; come get your tickets ready."
To the Second Class.—Fortè.—"Tickets, gents; get your tickets ready, gents."
To the First Class.—Piano.—"Get your tickets ready, gentlemen, if you please; tickets ready, if you please, gentlemen."
Lady. "Can I book through from here to Oban?"
Well-educated Clerk (correcting her). "Holborn, you mean. No; but you can book to Broad Street, and then take a 'bus!"
Collisions four
Or five she bore,
The signals wor in vain;
Grown old and rusted,
Her biler busted,
And smash'd the Excursion Train.
Overworked Pointsman (puzzled). "Let's see!—there's the 'scursion' were due at 4.45, and it ain't in; then, afore that, were the 'mineral,'—no! that must ha' been the 'goods,'—or the 'cattle.' No! that were after,—cattle's shunting now. Let's see!—fast train came through at——Con-found!—and here comes 'the express' afore its time, and blest if I know which line she's on!!"
Ten minutes here! The sun is sinking,
And longingly we've long been thinking
Of Tea, Tea, fragrant Tea!
The marble slabs we gather round.
They're long in bringing what is wanted,
The china cup with draught em-brown'd,
Our thirsty souls are wholly haunted
By Tea, Tea, fragrant Tea!
Now then, you waiter, stir, awaken!
Time's up. I'll hardly save my bacon.
Tea, Tea, bring that Tea!
At last! The infusion's rayther dark.
But hurry up! Can't stay for ever!
One swig! Br-r-r-r! Hang the cunning shark!
Will't never cool? Nay, never, never!
Tea, Tea, scalding Tea!
More milk; don't be an hour in bringing!
Heavens! That horrid bell is ringing!
"Take your seats, please!" Can't touch the Tea!
Cup to the carriage must not take;
Crockery may be lost, or broken;
Refreshment sharks are wide awake.
But—many a naughty word is spoken
O'er Tea, Tea, scalding Tea!
Head Barmaid. "These tarts are quite stale, Miss Hunt—been on the counter for a fortnight! Would you mind taking them into the second-class refreshment-room?"
Chatty Passenger. "Porter! That's one of those curious tailless Manx cats, is it not?"
Crusty Porter (shortly). "No, 'taint. Morn'g 'xpress!"
Passenger (puzzled). "E—h—I don't understand——"
Porter. "Don't yer? Well, you come and put your toe on these 'ere down metals about 9.14 a.m. to-morrow, and——"
Passenger (enlightened). "Ah!—I see—jus' so——"
[Retires under cover of newspaper.
I have come to the conclusion that the railway train exercises a sinister influence upon the human race. Persons who are tolerable—or even welcome—in ordinary daily life, become peculiarly obnoxious so soon as they enter the compartment of a train. No fairy prince ever stepped into a railway train—assuming he favoured that means of locomotion—without being transformed straightway into a Beast, and even Beauty herself could not be distinguished from her disagreeable sisters—in a train.
Speaking for myself, railway travelling invariably brings to the surface all my worst qualities.
My neighbour opposite hazards some remark. I feel immediately a fit of taciturnity coming over me, and an overpowering inclination to retreat behind a fortification of journals and magazines. On the other hand, say that I have exhausted my stock of railway literature—or, no remote possibility, that the literature has exhausted me—then I make a casual remark about the weather. The weather is not usually considered a controversial topic: in railway trains, however, it becomes so.
"Rain! not a bit," says a passenger in the far corner, evidently meditating a walking tour, and he views me suspiciously as if I were a rain-producer.
"And a good thing too," remarks the man opposite. "It's wanted badly, I tell you, sir—very badly. It's all very well for you holiday folk," &c., &c.
And all this bad feeling because of my harmless well-intentioned remark.
The window is up. "Phew!... stuffy," says the man opposite. "You don't mind, I hope, the window—eh?" "Not in the least," I say, and conceive a deadly hatred for him. I know from experience that directly that window is down all the winds of heaven will conspire to rush through, bearing upon them a smoky pall. I resign myself, therefore, to possible bronchitis and inflammation of the eye. Schoolboys, I may remark by the way, are the worst window offenders, owing to their diabolical practice of looking out of window in a tunnel—and, of course, nothing ever happens to them. What's the use of expostulating after the compartment is full of yellow, choking vapour. These boys should be leashed together like dogs and conveyed in the luggage-van.
The window is down. "W-h-oop," coughs an elderly man. "Do you mind, sir, that window being closed?" Polite mendacity and inward bitterness on my part towards the individual who has converted the compartment into an oven.
But there are worse companions even than these, of whom I must speak another time.
I have known people thoughtlessly speak well of the luncheon-basket. In my opinion, the luncheon-basket arouses the worst passions of human nature, and is a direct incentive to deeds of violence. To say this is to cast an aspersion upon the refreshment contractor, who is evidently a man of touchingly simple faith and high imagination. Simple faith assuredly, for does he not provide on the principle that our insides are hardy and vigorous and unspoilt by the art of cooking? High imagination most certainly, otherwise he would never call that red fluid by the name of claret.
No, it is to the social rather than to the gastronomic influence of the luncheon-basket that I wish to advert.
Once I procured a luncheon-basket and with it came the demon of discontent and suspicion, converting three neutral people into deadly enemies.
One was a pale young man who had been scowling over Browning and making frantic notes on the margin of the book. Personally, I don't think it quite decent for pale young men to improve their minds in a public conveyance—but at any rate he had seemed harmless. Now he raised his eyes and viewed me with undisguised contempt. "Wretched glutton," he said in effect, and when accidentally I burned my mouth with mustard (which a sudden swerve had sent meandering in a yellow stream across the chicken and ham), he gave a sneering, callous smile, which reminded me that a man may smile and smile and be a—railway companion.
I verily believe that youth to be capable of any crime, even Extension lecturing.
Then there was a young lady reading a sixpenny Braddon, who viewed me as if I were some monster; when I shut my eyes and gulped off some—er—claret, she brought biscuits and lemonade from a small bag and refreshed herself with ostentatious simplicity, as if to say, "Look upon this picture and on the wine-bibbing epicurean in the corner." An old lady with her was more amply provided for (old ladies usually take more care of their insides than anyone else in creation), but although she munched sandwiches and washed them down with sherry (probably sweet, ugh!) luxuriously, she looked with pious horror at my plates and dishes spread out. I might have said, "Madam, I eat frankly and openly; my resources may be viewed by all. Your secret and delusive bags have limitless resources that you are ashamed to show."
I didn't say so; but the restraint placed on myself quite spoilt the lunch. No more baskets.