Mr. Punch's Railway Book by J. A. Hammerton et al. (best ebook reader .txt) đź“•
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My neighbour opposite hazards some remark. I feel immediately a fit of taciturnity coming over me, and an overpowering inclination to retreat behind a fortification of journals and magazines. On the other hand, say that I have exhausted my stock of railway literature—or, no remote possibility, that the literature has exhausted me—then I make a casual remark about the weather. The weather is not usually considered a controversial topic: in railway trains, however, it becomes so.
"Rain! not a bit," says a passenger in the far corner, evidently meditating a walking tour, and he views me suspiciously as if I were a rain-producer.
"And a good thing too," remarks the man opposite. "It's wanted badly, I tell you, sir—very badly. It's all very well for you holiday folk," &c., &c.
And all this bad feeling because of my harmless well-intentioned remark.
The window is up. "Phew!... stuffy," says the man opposite. "You don't mind, I hope, the window—eh?" "Not in the least," I say, and conceive a deadly hatred for him. I know from experience that directly that window is down all the winds of heaven will conspire to rush through, bearing upon them a smoky pall. I resign myself, therefore, to possible bronchitis and inflammation of the eye. Schoolboys, I may remark by the way, are the worst window offenders, owing to their diabolical practice of looking out of window in a tunnel—and, of course, nothing ever happens to them. What's the use of expostulating after the compartment is full of yellow, choking vapour. These boys should be leashed together like dogs and conveyed in the luggage-van.
The window is down. "W-h-oop," coughs an elderly man. "Do you mind, sir, that window being closed?" Polite mendacity and inward bitterness on my part towards the individual who has converted the compartment into an oven.
But there are worse companions even than these, of whom I must speak another time.
II.I have known people thoughtlessly speak well of the luncheon-basket. In my opinion, the luncheon-basket arouses the worst passions of human nature, and is a direct incentive to deeds of violence. To say this is to cast an aspersion upon the refreshment contractor, who is evidently a man of touchingly simple faith and high imagination. Simple faith assuredly, for does he not provide on the principle that our insides are hardy and vigorous and unspoilt by the art of cooking? High imagination most certainly, otherwise he would never call that red fluid by the name of claret.
No, it is to the social rather than to the gastronomic influence of the luncheon-basket that I wish to advert.
Once I procured a luncheon-basket and with it came the demon of discontent and suspicion, converting three neutral people into deadly enemies.
One was a pale young man who had been scowling over Browning and making frantic notes on the margin of the book. Personally, I don't think it quite decent for pale young men to improve their minds in a public conveyance—but at any rate he had seemed harmless. Now he raised his eyes and viewed me with undisguised contempt. "Wretched glutton," he said in effect, and when accidentally I burned my mouth with mustard (which a sudden swerve had sent meandering in a yellow stream across the chicken and ham), he gave a sneering, callous smile, which reminded me that a man may smile and smile and be a—railway companion.
I verily believe that youth to be capable of any crime, even Extension lecturing.
Then there was a young lady reading a sixpenny Braddon, who viewed me as if I were some monster; when I shut my eyes and gulped off some—er—claret, she brought biscuits and lemonade from a small bag and refreshed herself with ostentatious simplicity, as if to say, "Look upon this picture and on the wine-bibbing epicurean in the corner." An old lady with her was more amply provided for (old ladies usually take more care of their insides than anyone else in creation), but although she munched sandwiches and washed them down with sherry (probably sweet, ugh!) luxuriously, she looked with pious horror at my plates and dishes spread out. I might have said, "Madam, I eat frankly and openly; my resources may be viewed by all. Your secret and delusive bags have limitless resources that you are ashamed to show."
I didn't say so; but the restraint placed on myself quite spoilt the lunch. No more baskets.
[Pg 84]
Ticket Collector. "Now, then, make haste! Where's your ticket?"
Bandsman (refreshed). "Au've lost it!"
Ticket Collector. "Nonsense! Feel in your pockets. Ye cannot hev lost it!"
Bandsman. "Aw cannot? Why, man, au've lost the big drum!"
[Pg 85]
First Young Lady. "How did you like Convict Life, dear?"
Second Young Lady. "Pretty well. We've just begun Ten Years' Penal Servitude. Some of us like it, but——"
Old Lady (mentally). "Good gracious! What dreadful creatures! So young, too!"
[Looks for the communicating cord!
[Pg 86]
First Passenger. "Had pretty good sport?"
Second Passenger. "No—very poor. Birds wild—rain in torrents—dogs no use. 'Only got fifty brace!"
First Passenger. "'Make birds dear, won't it?"
Second Passenger ("off his guard"). "You're right. I assure you I paid three-and-sixpence a brace all round at Norwich this morning!"
[Pg 87]
Young Lady (who has never travelled by this line before). "Do you go to Kew Gardens?"
Booking-Clerk. "Sometimes on a Sunday, miss, on a summer's afternoon!"
[Pg 88]
(Twenty minutes ahead of time.)
[Pg 89]
Lady. "I want one ticket—first!" Clerk. "Single?" Lady. "Single! What does it matter to you, sir, whether I'm single or not? Impertinence!"
[Clerk explains that he meant single or return, not t'other thing.
[Pg 90]
Brown. "Shockin' thing! You heard of poor Mullins getting his neck broken in that collision!"
Jones. "Ah!—it's as-tonishing how lucky some fellows are! He told me 'last time I saw him he'd just insured his life for three thous'd poun's!!"
[Pg 91]
INJURED INNOCENCE"Hulloa! You've no call to be in here! You haven't got a fust-class ticket, I know."
"No! I hain't!"
"Well, come out! This ain't a third-class carriage!"
"Hain't it? Lor! Well I thought it wos, by the look of the passingers!"
[Pg 92]
Guard. "Some one been smoking, I think?"
Passenger. "What! Smoking! That's very reprehensible. Perhaps it was the clerical gentleman who has just got out of the next compartment."
[Pg 93]
Chatty Passenger (on G. W. Railway). "How plainly you can see the lights of Hanwell from the railway!"
Silent Man (in the corner). "Not half so plain as the lights of the train look from Hanwell!"
[All change at the next station.
[Pg 94]
Sporting Gentleman. "Well, sir, I'm very pleased to have made your acquaintance, and had the opportunity of hearing a Churchman's views on the question of tithes. Of course, as a country landowner, I'm interested in Church matters, and——"
The Parson. "Quite so—delighted, I'm sure. Er—by the bye, could you tell me what's won to-day?"
[Pg 95]
Bookstall Keeper. "Book, ma'am? Yes, ma'am. Here's a popular work by an eminent surgeon, just published, 'Broken Legs: and How to Mend Them': or, would you like the last number of The Railway Operator?"
[Pg 96]
Bumptious Old Gent (in a directorial tone). "Ah, guard—what are we—ah—waiting for?"
Guard (with unconcern). "Waiting for the train to go on, sir!"
[Old Gent retires.
[Pg 97]
First Passenger. "They say they've put on detectives 'ere, to catch coves as travels without tickets."
Second Passenger. "'Ave they? Well, all I can say is, I can travel as often as I like from Cannon Street to Victoria, and not pay a 'apenny!"
Detective. "See here, mate; I'll give you half-a-crown if you tell me how you do it."
Second Passenger (after pocketing the half-crown). "Well,—when I wants to git from Cannon Street to Victoria without payin'—I walks!"
[Pg 98]
Cousin Madge. "Well, good-bye, Charlie. So many thanks for taking care of us!"
Charlie. "Not at all!"
VOCES POPULI II. On the PlatformA Lady of Family. Oh, yes, I do travel third-class sometimes, my dear. I consider it a duty to try to know something of the lower orders.
[Looks out for an empty third-class compartment.
En RouteThe seats are now all occupied: the Lady of Family is in one corner, next to a Chatty Woman with a basket, and opposite to an Eccentric-looking Man with a flighty manner.
The Eccentric Man (to the Lady of Family). Sorry to disturb you, mum, but you're a-setting on one o' my 'am sandwiches.
The L. of F.???!!!
The E. M. (considerately). Don't trouble yourself, mum, it's of no intrinsic value. I on'y put it there to keep my seat.
The Chatty W. (to the L. of F.). I think I've seen you about Shinglebeach, 'ave I not?[Pg 102]
The L. of F. It is very possible. I have been staying with some friends in the neighbourhood.
The C. W. It's a nice cheerful place is Shinglebeach; but (confidentially) don't you think it's a very sing'ler thing that in a place like that—a fash'nable place, too—there shouldn't be a single 'am an' beef shop?
The L. of F. (making a desperate effort to throw herself into the question). What a very extraordinary thing, to be sure! Dear, dear me! No ham and beef shop!
The C. W. It's so indeed, mum; and what's more, as I dare say you've noticed for yourself, if you 'appen to want a snack o' fried fish ever so, there isn't a place you could go to—leastways, at a moment's notice. Now, 'ow do you explain such a thing as that?
The L. of F. (faintly). I'm afraid I can't suggest any explanation.
A Sententious Man. Fried fish is very sustaining.
[Relapses into silence for the remainder of journey.
The Eccentric Man. Talking of sustaining, I remember, when we was kids, my father ud bring us home two pennorth o' ches'nuts, and we 'ad 'em boiled, and they'd last us days. (Sentimentally.) He was a kind man, my father (to the L. of F., who bows constrainedly), though you wouldn't ha' thought it, to look at him. I don't say, mind yer, that he wasn't fond of his bit o' booze—(the L. of F. looks out of window)—like the best of us. I'm goin' up to prove his will now, I am—if you don't believe me, 'ere's the probate. (Hands that document round for inspection.) That's all reg'lar enough, I 'ope. (To the L. of F.) Don't give it back before you've done with it—I'm in no 'urry, and there's good reading in it. (Points out certain favourite passages with a very dirty forefinger.) Begin there—that's my name.
[The L. of F. peruses the will with as great a show of interest as she can bring herself to assume.
[Pg 106]
The Eccentric Man. D'ye see that big 'andsome building over there? That's the County Lunatic Asylum—where my poor wife is shut up. I went to see her last week, I did. (Relates his visit in detail to the L. of F., who listens unwillingly.) It's wonderful how many of our family have been in that asylum from first to last. I 'ad a aunt who died cracky; and my old mother, she's very peculiar at times. There's days when I feel as if I was a little orf my own 'ed, so if I say anything at all out of the way, you'll know what it is.
[L. of F. changes carriages at the next station. In the second carriage are two Men of seafaring appearance, and a young Man who is parting from his Fianc�e as
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