MARK TWAIN
We started to Boston the next afternoon. The smoking-compartment in the parlor-car was full, and we went into the regular smoker. Across the aisle in the front seat sat a meek, farmer-looking old man with a sickly pallor in his face, and he was holding the door open with his foot to get the air. Presently a big brakeman came rushing through, and when he got to the door he stopped, gave the farmer an ugly scowl, then wrenched the door to with such energy as to almost snatch the old man s boot off. Then on he plunged about his business. Several passengers laughed, and the old gentleman looked pathetically shamed and grieved.
After a little the conductor passed along, and the Major stopped him and asked him a question in his habitually courteous way:
Conductor, where does one report the misconduct of a brakeman? Does one report to you?"
"You can report him at New Haven if you want to. What has he been doing?"
The Major told the story. The conductor seemed amused. He said, with just a touch of sarcasm in his bland tones:
"As I understand you, the brakeman didn t say anything.
"No, he didn t say anything."
"But he scowled, you say."
"Yes."
"And snatched the door loose in a rough way."
"Yes."
"That s the whole business, is it?"
"Yes, that is the whole of it."
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