There are several young men whose eyes are
reddened. A young woman in a cheap but fancy dress. And several
middle-aged men. All of them look bored and tired. And all of them present
a bit of mystery.
Who are these passengers through the night? And what has kept them up? And
where are they going or coming from? The newspaper man has half a mind to
inquire. Instead he picks on the conductor, and as the car bounces gayly
through the dark, cavernous streets the mild-faced conductor lends himself
to a conversation.
"I been on this line for six years. Always on the owl car," he says. "I
like it better than the day shift. I was married, but my wife died and I
don't find much to do with my evenings, anyway.
"No, I don't know any of these people, except there's a couple of
workingmen who I take home on the next trip. Mostly they're always
strangers. They've been out having a good time, I suppose. It's funny
about them. I always feel sorry for 'em. Yes, sir, you can't help it.
"There's some that's been out drinking or hanging around with women and
when they get on the car they sort of slide down in their seats and you
feel like there was nothing much to what they'd been doing. Pessimistic?
No, I ain't pessimistic.
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