“I didn’t mean—­I mean it’s lovely the way the light pulls that picturesque yard, all littered with junk, right out of the darkness,” said Paul.

They stared at him, while Babbitt crowed, “Paul there has certainly got one great little eye for picturesque places and quaint sights and all that stuff.  ’D of been an author or something if he hadn’t gone into the roofing line.”

Paul looked annoyed. (Babbitt sometimes wondered if Paul appreciated his loyal boosting.) The man in the velour hat grunted, “Well, personally, I think Shelling-Horton keep their works awful dirty.  Bum routing.  But I don’t suppose there’s any law against calling ’em ‘picturesque’ if it gets you that way!”

Paul sulkily returned to his newspaper and the conversation logically moved on to trains.

“What time do we get into Pittsburg?” asked Babbitt.

“Pittsburg?  I think we get in at—­no, that was last year’s schedule—­wait a minute—­let’s see—­got a time-table right here.”

“I wonder if we’re on time?”

“Yuh, sure, we must be just about on time.”

“No, we aren’t—­we were seven minutes late, last station.”

“Were we?  Straight?  Why, gosh, I thought we were right on time.”

“No, we’re about seven minutes late.”

“Yuh, that’s right; seven minutes late.”

The porter entered—­a negro in white jacket with brass buttons.

“How late are we, George?” growled the fat man.

“’Deed, I don’t know, sir.  I think we’re about on time,” said the porter, folding towels and deftly tossing them up on the rack above the washbowls.  The council stared at him gloomily and when he was gone they wailed: 

“I don’t know what’s come over these niggers, nowadays.  They never give you a civil answer.”

“That’s a fact.  They’re getting so they don’t have a single bit of respect for you.  The old-fashioned coon was a fine old cuss—­he knew his place—­but these young dinges don’t want to be porters or cotton-pickers.  Oh, no!  They got to be lawyers and professors and Lord knows what all!  I tell you, it’s becoming a pretty serious problem.  We ought to get together and show the black man, yes, and the yellow man, his place.  Now, I haven’t got one particle of race-prejudice.  I’m the first to be glad when a nigger succeeds—­so long as he stays where he belongs and doesn’t try to usurp the rightful authority and business ability of the white man.”

“That’s the i.!  And another thing we got to do,” said the man with the velour hat (whose name was Koplinsky), “is to keep these damn foreigners out of the country.  Thank the Lord, we’re putting a limit on immigration.  These Dagoes and Hunkies have got to learn that this is a white man’s country, and they ain’t wanted here.  When we’ve assimilated the foreigners we got here now and learned ’em the principles of Americanism and turned ’em into regular folks, why then maybe we’ll let in a few more.”