A proud man, and a high-spirited, is the conductor of the 4:27 on weekdays.  This train, after leaving Jamaica, does not stop until Salamis is reached.  It attains such magnificent speed that it always gets to Salamis a couple of minutes ahead of time.  Then stands the conductor on the platform, watch in hand, receiving the plaudits of those who get off.  The Salamites have to stand patiently beside the train—­it is a level crossing—­until it moves on.  This is the daily glory of this conductor, as he stands, watch in one hand, the other hand on the signal cord, waiting for Time to catch up with him. “Some train,” we cry up at him; he tries not to look pleased, but he is a happy man.  Then he pulls the cord and glides away.

Among other articulations in the anatomy of commuting, we mention the fact that no good trainman ever speaks of a train going or stopping anywhere.  He says, “This train makes Sea Cliff and Glen Cove; it don’t make Salamis.”  To be more purist still, one should refer to the train as “he” (as a kind of extension of the engineer’s personality, we suppose).  If you want to speak with the tongue of a veteran, you will say, “He makes Sea Cliff and Glen Cove.”

The commuter has a chance to observe all manner of types among his brethren.  On our line we all know by sight the two fanatical checker players, bent happily over their homemade board all the way to town.  At Jamaica they are so absorbed in play that the conductor—­this is the conductor who is so nervous about missing a fare and asks everyone three times if his ticket has been punched—­has to rout them out to change to the Brooklyn train.  “How’s the game this morning?” says someone.  “Oh, I was just trimming him, but they made us change.”  However thick the throng, these two always manage to find seats together.  They are still hard at it when Atlantic Avenue is reached, furiously playing the last moves as the rest file out.  Then there is the humorous news-agent who takes charge of the smoking car between Jamaica and Oyster Bay.  There is some mysterious little game that he conducts with his clients.  Very solemnly he passes down the aisle distributing rolled-up strips of paper among the card players.  By and by it transpires that some one has won a box of candy.  Just how this is done we know not.  Speaking of card players, observe the gaze of anguish on the outpost.  He dashes ahead, grabs two facing seats and sits in one with a face contorted with anxiety for fear that the others will be too late to join him.  As soon as a card game is started there are always a half dozen other men who watch it, following every play with painful scrutiny.  It seems that watching other people play cards is the most absorbing amusement known to the commuter.

Then there is the man who carries a heavy bag packed with books.  A queer creature, this.  Day by day he lugs that bag with him yet spends all his time reading the papers and rarely using the books he carries.  His pipe always goes out just as he reaches his station; frantically he tries to fill and light it before the train stops.  Sometimes he digs deeply into the bag and brings out a large slab of chocolate, which he eats with an air of being slightly ashamed of himself.  The oddities of this person do not amuse us any the less because he happens to be ourself.