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“Is that so!” exclaimed one who was his passenger, not wishing to deny him the pleasure he expected of having excited astonishment. A car conductor leads a hard life, poor fellow, and one should not begrudge him a little pleasure like that.

The conductor twisted away his face for an instant while he spat tobacco-juice. Thus cleared for action, he returned to the subject of his thoughts. “That’s the mother of Cora Splitts,” he repeated again. “She’s at White Plains tonight, Cora is. Cora and me,” he said, as one that says, “ah, me, what a world it is!”–“Cora and me was chums once. Yes, sir; we was chums and went to school together.” Some valuable reminiscences of the distinguished woman, dating back to days before the world dreamed of what she would become, by one who played with her as a child, doubtless would have been told, but the conductor was interrupted; a great many people got off, some others got on the car just then, and he went forward to collect fares from these, and the thread was broken.

At my journey’s end, I recollect, I went into a public-house. There was a person there whose presence made a deep impression upon my memory. A fine stocky lad, with a great square jaw, heavy beery jowls, and a blue-black, bearded chin; in a blue striped collar. He put both hands firmly on the bar-rail at a good distance apart; straightened his arms taut and his body at right angles with them, so that he resembled a huge carpenter’s square; then curled his back finely in, and said, with a significant look at the man behind the bar, “Gimme one o’ them shells.” A thin glass of beer was set before him; he relaxed, straightened up, and drank off its contents. Then, apparently, feeling that he was observed, he looked very unconcernedly all about the room and appeared to be bored. He then examined very attentively a picture on the wall, and his neck seemed to be temporarily stiff. I can see him now, I am happy to say, as plain as print.

One’s mind is, indeed, a grand photograph album. How precious to one it will be when one is old and may sit all day in a house by the sea and, so to say, turn the leaves. That is why one should be going about all the while in one’s vigour with an alert and an open mind.

Wives are picturesque characters, too. I mind me of my friend Billy Henderson’s new wife. Billy Henderson’s wife looks like a balloon. She’s so fat that she has busted down the arches of her feet. In order to “fight flesh” she walks a great deal. She walks a mile every day, and then takes a car back home. Her father comes over from Philadelphia once every week to see her, because she is so homesick. For months after she was married she just cried all the time, she was so homesick. She never goes to the movies. The movies make her cry. One time she saw at the movies a hospital scene. It horrified her for days. A friend of hers is about to be married. But she has told her friend that she cannot go to the wedding. Weddings always make her cry so. She just can’t read the war news; it is too terrible; it affects her so that she can’t sleep a bit. She hasn’t read any of it at all, and, she says, she has no idea who is winning the war. She takes some kind of capsules to reduce flesh, which cost six dollars for fifty. She has taken twenty-five. The extension of the draft age being spoken of, she said to Billy:

“Dearie, I’ll put you under the bed where they won’t get you.” She doesn’t want to vote, and she can’t understand why any one should want to go to poles and vote and all that kind of thing.

Billy Henderson’s wife is handsome; she is rich; she is an excellent cook; she loves Billy Henderson.