My companion and I stayed at the Belvedere and found it a good hotel, albeit one which has, I think, become a shade too well accustomed to being called good.  Perhaps because of a city ordinance, perhaps because the waiters want to go to bed, they have a trick, in the Belvedere dining-room, during the cold weather, of opening the windows and freezing out such dilatory supper-guests as would fain sit up and talk.  This is a system even more effective than the ancient one of mopping up the floors, piling chairs upon the tables, and turning out enough lights to make the room dull.  A good post-midnight conversationalist—­and Baltimore is not without them—­can stand mops, buckets, and dim lights, but turn cold drafts upon his back and he gives up, sends for his coat, buttons it about his paunch and goes sadly home.

It is fitting that last of all should be mentioned the man who views you with keen eye as you arrive in Baltimore, and who watches you depart.  If you are in Baltimore he knows it.  And when you go away he knows that, too.  Also, during racing season, he knows whether you bet, and whether you won or lost.  He is always at the station and always at the race track, and if you don’t belong in Baltimore he is aware of it the instant he sets eyes upon you, because he knows every man, woman, child, and dog in Baltimore, and they all know him.  If you are a Baltimorean you are already aware that I refer to the sapient McNeal, policeman at the Union Station.

McNeal and Cardinal Gibbons are, I take it, the two preeminent figures of the city.  Their duties, I admit, are not alike, but each performs his duties with discretion, with devotion, with distinction.  The latter has already celebrated the thirtieth anniversary of his nomination as cardinal, but the former is well on the way toward his fortieth anniversary as officer at the Union Station.

McNeal is an artist.  He loves his work.  And when his day off comes and he puts on citizen’s clothing and goes out for a good time, where do you suppose he goes?

Why down to the station, of course, to talk things over with the man who is relieving him!

CHAPTER VI

DOUGHOREGAN MANOR AND THE CARROLLS

If I am to be honest about the South, and about myself—­and I propose to be—­I must admit that, though I approached the fabled land in a most friendly spirit, I had nevertheless become a little tired of the southern family tree, the southern ancestral hall, and the old southern negro servant of stage and story, and just a little skeptical about them.  Almost unconsciously, at first, I had begun to wonder whether, instead of being things of actuality, they were not, rather, a mere set of romantic trade-marks, so to speak; symbols signifying the South as the butler with side whiskers signifies English comedy; as “Her” visit to “His” rooms, in the third act, signifies English drama; or as double doorways in a paneled “set” signify French farce.