I lay in collapse for over an hour, and then, summoning my manhood,
arose. On the previous evening the hot-water tap of my toilette had
yielded only cold water. Not wishing to appear hypercritical, I had said
nothing, but I had thought. I now casually turned on the cold-water tap
and was scalded by nearly boiling water. The hot-water tap still yielded
cold water. Lest I should be accused of inventing this caprice of
plumbing in a hotel and club, I give the name of the car. It was
appropriately styled "Watertown" (compartment E).

In the corridor an admiral, audaciously interrogated, admitted that the
train was at that moment two hours and ten minutes late. As for Elkhart,
it seemed to be still about ninety miles away. I went into the
observation-saloon to cheer myself up by observing, and was struck by a
chill, and by the chilly, pinched demeanor of sundry other passengers,
and by the apologetic faces of certain captains. Already in my
state-room my senses had suspected a chill; but I had refused to believe
my senses. I knew and had known all my life that American trains were
too hot, and I had put down the supposed chill to a psychological
delusion. It was, however, no delusion. As we swept through a snowy
landscape the apologetic captains announced sadly that the engine was
not sparing enough steam to heat the whole of the train. We put on
overcoats and stamped our feet.

The train was now full of ravening passengers. And as Elkhart with
infinite shyness approached, the ravening passengers formed in files in
the corridors, and their dignity was jerked about by the speed of the
icy train, and they waited and waited, like mendicants at the kitchen
entrance of a big restaurant. And at long last, when we had ceased to
credit that any such place as Elkhart existed, Elkhart arrived. Two