The train now sped across country at such terrific speed that the small Sullivan at the throttle, an artist and a realist, crouched low, with eyes strained upon the track-head, with one hand tightly holding on his Sunday cap.
Another Sullivan was fireman, fiercely shovelling imaginary coal; still another at the side of the box grasped the handle of the brake as one ready to die at his post if need be.

The last Sullivan paced the length of the wagon-box, being thrown from side to side with fine artistry by the train's jolting.

He arrogantly demanded tickets from passengers supposedly both to relinquish these.

And in his wake went the official most envied by all the others.

With a horse's nose-bag upon his arm my namesake chanted in pleading tones above the din, "Peanuts--freshly buttered popcorn--Culver's celebrated double-X cough drops, cool and refreshing!" But the tragic eminence of the game was occupied by my woman child.
Perched in the middle of the high seat, her short legs impotently projecting into space, she was the only passenger on this train--and she, for whose sole behoof the ponderous machinery was operated, in whose exclusive service this crew of trained hirelings toiled--she sat aloft indignant, with tear-wet face, her soul revolted by the ignominy of it.
I knew the truth in a glance.