What can be done for Lemuel? He must bide his time and constantly make
himself a better servant--a better porter, if you please. It will not go
unnoticed. The Pullman system has a method for noticing those very
things--inconsequential in themselves but all going to raise the
standard of its service.

Then some fine day something will happen. A big sleeping-car autocrat,
in the smugness and false security of a fat run, is going to err. He is
going to step on the feet of some important citizen--perhaps a railroad
director--and the important citizen is going to make a fuss. After which
Lemuel, hard-schooled in adversity, in faithfulness and in courtesy,
will be asked in the passing of a night to change places with the old
autocrat.

And the old autocrat, riding in the poverty of a lean run, will have
plenty of opportunity to count the telegraph poles and reflect on the
mutability of men and things. The Pullman Company denies that this is
part of its system; but it does happen--time and time and time again.

George, or Lemuel, or Alexander--whatever the name may be--has no easy
job. If you do not believe that, go upstairs some hot summer night to
the rear bedroom--that little room under the blazing tin roof which you
reserve for your relatives--and make up the bed fifteen or twenty times,
carefully unmaking it between times and placing the clothes away in a
regular position. Let your family nag at you and criticize you during
each moment of the job--while somebody plays an obbligato on the
electric bell and places shoes and leather grips underneath your feet.
Imagine the house is bumping and rocking--and keep a smiling face and a
courteous tongue throughout all of it!