He was a motorman on the
suburban line, it seemed, and had known Fifi very well.
"No, sir, I wouldn't believe it when my wife seen it in the paper and
called it out to me, an' I says there's some mistake, you can be sure,
and she says no, here it is in the paper, you can read it for y'self.
But I wouldn't believe it till I went by the house on the way to my run,
and there was the crape on the door. An' I tell you, suh, I couldn't a
felt worse if 'twas one o' my own kids. Why, it seems like only the
other morning she skipped onto my car, laughin' and sayin', 'How are you
to-day, Mr. Barnes?' Why she and me been buddies for nigh three years,
and she took my 9.30 north car every Sunday morning, rain or shine, just
as reg'lar, and was the only one I ever let stand out on _my_ platform,
bein' strictly agin all rules, and my old partner Hornheim was fired for
allowin' it, it ain't six months since. But what could I do when she
asked me, _please, Mr. Barnes_, with that sweet face o' hers, and her
rememberin' me every Christmas that came along just like I was her
Pa...."
The motorman talked too much, but he proved useful in finding seats up
near the front, where, being fat, he took up considerably more than his
share of room.
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