Or do this on a bitter night in midwinter; and between every two or three makings of the bed in the overheated room slip out of a linen coat and into a fairly thin serge one and go and stand outside the door from three to ten minutes in the snow and cold.  In some ways this is one of the hardest parts of George’s job.  Racially the negro is peculiarly sensitive to pneumonia and other pulmonary diseases; yet the rules of a porter’s job require that at stopping stations he must be outside of the car—­no matter what the hour or condition of the climate—­smiling and ready to say: 

“What space you got, guv’nor?”

However, the porter’s job, like nearly every other job, has its glories as well as its hardships—­triumphs that can be told and retold for many a day to fascinated colored audiences; because there are special trains—­filled with pursy and prosperous bankers from Hartford and Rochester and Terre Haute—­making the trip from coast to coast and back again, and never forgetting the porter at the last hour of the last day.

There are many men in the Pullman service like Roger Pryor, who has ridden with every recent President of the land and enjoyed his confidence and respect.  And then there is General Henry Forrest, of the Congressional Limited, for twenty-four years in charge of one of its broiler cars, who stops not at Presidents but enjoys the acquaintance of senators and ambassadors almost without number.

The General comes to know these dignitaries by their feet.  When he is standing at the door of his train under the Pennsylvania Terminal, in New York, he recognizes the feet as they come poking down the long stairs from the concourse.  And he can make his smile senatorial or ambassadorial—­a long time in advance.

Once Forrest journeyed in a private car to San Francisco, caring for a Certain Big Man.  He took good care of the Certain Big Man—­that was part of his job.  He took extra good care of the Certain Big Man—­that was his opportunity.  And when the Certain Big Man reached the Golden Gate he told Henry Forrest that he had understood and appreciated the countless attentions.  The black face of the porter wrinkled into smiles.  He dared to venture an observation.

“Ah thank you, Jedge!” said he.  “An’ ef it wouldn’t be trespassin’ Ah’d lak to say dat when yo’ comes home you’s gwine to be President of dese United States.”

The Certain Big Man shook his head negatively; but he was flattered nevertheless.  He leaned over and spoke to Henry Forrest.

“If ever I am President,” said he, “I will make you a general.”

And so it came to pass that on the blizzardy Dakota-made day when William Howard Taft was inaugurated President of these United States there was a parade—­a parade in which many men rode in panoply and pride; but none was prouder there than he who, mounted on a magnificent bay horse, headed the Philippine Band.