Congressional, more in a moment--fat trains that follow the route of the
Century.

It was on one of these, coming east from Cleveland on a snowy night in
February last, that a resourceful porter had full use for his store of
tact; for there is, in the community that has begun to stamp Sixth City
on its shirts and its shoe tabs, a bank president who--to put the matter
lightly--is a particular traveler. More than one black man, rising high
in porter service, has had his vanity come to grief when this crotchety
personage has come on his car.

And the man himself was one of those who are marked up and down the
Pullman trails. An unwritten code was being transmitted between the
black brethren of the sleeping cars as to his whims and peculiarities.
It was well that every brother in service in the Cleveland district
should know the code. When Mr. X entered his drawing-room--he never
rides elsewhere in the car--shades were to be drawn, a pillow beaten and
ready by the window, and matches on the window sill. X would never ask
for these things; but God help the poor porter who forgot them!

So you yourself can imagine the emotions of Whittlesey Warren, porter of
the car Thanatopsis, bound east on Number Six on the snowy February
night when X came through the portals of that scarabic antique, the
Union Depot at Cleveland, a redcap with his grips in the wake. Warren
recognized his man. The code took good care as to that. He followed the
banker down the aisle, tucked away the bags, pulled down the shades,
fixed the pillow and placed the matches on the window sill.

The banker merely grunted approval, lighted a big black cigar and went
into the smoker, while Warren gave some passing attention to the other