Two newspaper men in New York know that.  They had gone over to Boston for a week-end, had separated momentarily at its end, to meet at the last of the afternoon trains for Gotham.  A had the joint finances and tickets for the trip; but B, hurrying through the traffic tangle of South Station, just ninety seconds before the moment of departure, knew that he would find him already in the big Pullman observation car.  He was not asked to show his ticket at the train gate.  Boston, with the fine spirit of the Tea Party still flowing in its blue veins, has always resented that as a sort of railroad impertinence.

B did not find A. He did not really search for him until Back Bay was passed and the train was on the first leg of its journey, with the next stop at Providence.  Then it was that A was not to be found.  Then B realized that his side partner had missed the train.  He dropped into a corner and searched his own pockets.  A battered quarter and three pennies came to view—­and the fare from Boston to Providence is ninety cents!

Then it was that the initiative of a well-trained Pullman porter came into play.  He had stood over the distressed B while he was making an inventory of his resources.

“Done los’ something, boss?” said the autocrat of the car.

B told the black man his story in a quick, straightforward manner; and the black man looked into his eyes.  B returned the glance.  Perhaps he saw in that honest ebony face something of the expression of the faithful servants of wartime who refused to leave their masters even after utter ruin had come upon them.  The porter drew forth a fat roll of bills.

“Ah guess dat, ef you-all’ll give meh yo’ business cyard, Ah’ll be able to fee-nance yo’ trip dis time.”

To initiative the black man was adding intuition.  He had studied his man.  He was forever using his countless opportunities to study men.  It was not so much of a gamble as one might suppose.

A pretty well-known editor was saved from a mighty embarrassing time; and some other people have been saved from similarly embarrassing situations through the intuition and the resources of the Pullman porter.  The conductor—­both of the train and of the sleeping-car service—­is not permitted to exercise such initiative or intuition; but the porter can do and frequently does things of this very sort.  His recompense for them, however, is hardly to be classed as a tip.

The tip is the nub of the whole situation.  Almost since the very day when the Pioneer began to blaze the trail of luxury over the railroads of the land, and the autocrat of the Pullman car created his servile but entirely honorable calling, it has been a mooted point.  Recently a great Federal commission has blazed the strong light of publicity on it.  Robert T. Lincoln, son of the Emancipator, and, as we have already said, the head and front of the Pullman Company, sat in a witness chair at Washington and answered some pretty pointed questions as to the division of the porter’s income between the company and the passenger who employed him.  Wages, it appeared, are twenty-seven dollars and a half a month for the first fifteen years of the porter’s service, increasing thereafter to thirty dollars a month, slightly augmented by bonuses for good records.