and a derby hat tilted rather far aft had entered the smoker. He
suddenly learned that the train did not stop at Newark. He uttered
lamentation, and attacked the brakeman with grievous protest. "I
heard you say, This train stops at Newark and Philadelphia," he
insisted. His cigar revolved wildly in the corner of his mouth;
crystal beads burst out upon the opulent curve of his forehead.
"I've got to meet a man in Newark and sell him a bill of goods."

The brakeman was gentle but firm. "Here's the conductor," he said.
"You'll have to talk to him."

Now this is a tribute of admiration and respect to that conductor.
He came along the aisle punching tickets, holding his record slip
gracefully folded round the middle finger of his punch hand, as
conductors do. Like all experienced conductors he was alert,
watchful, ready for any kind of human guile and stupidity, but
courteous the while. The man bound for Newark ran to him and began
his harangue. The frustrated merchant was angry and felt himself a
man with a grievance. His voice rose in shrill tones, he waved his
hands.

Then began a scene that was delightful to watch. The conductor was
magnificently tactful. He ought to have been an ambassador (in fact,
he reminded us of one ambassador, for his trim and slender figure,
his tawny, drooping moustache, the gentle and serene tact of his
bearing, were very like Mr. Henry van Dyke). He allowed the
protestant to exhaust himself with reproaches, and then he began an
affectionate little sermon, tender, sympathetic, but firm.

"I thought this train stopped at Newark," the fat man kept on