"Pretty punk service the Company giving us on these car-lines. Nonsense
to only run the Portland Road cars once every seven minutes. Fellow gets
mighty cold on a winter morning, waiting on a street corner with the
wind nipping at his ankles."

"That's right. The Street Car Company don't care a damn what kind of a
deal they give us. Something ought to happen to 'em."

Babbitt was alarmed. "But still, of course it won't do to just keep
knocking the Traction Company and not realize the difficulties they're
operating under, like these cranks that want municipal ownership. The
way these workmen hold up the Company for high wages is simply a
crime, and of course the burden falls on you and me that have to pay
a seven-cent fare! Fact, there's remarkable service on all their
lines--considering."

"Well--" uneasily.

"Darn fine morning," Babbitt explained. "Spring coming along fast."

"Yes, it's real spring now."

The victim had no originality, no wit, and Babbitt fell into a great
silence and devoted himself to the game of beating trolley cars to the
corner: a spurt, a tail-chase, nervous speeding between the huge yellow
side of the trolley and the jagged row of parked motors, shooting past
just as the trolley stopped--a rare game and valiant.

And all the while he was conscious of the loveliness of Zenith. For
weeks together he noticed nothing but clients and the vexing To Rent