Or do this on a bitter night in midwinter; and between every two or
three makings of the bed in the overheated room slip out of a linen coat
and into a fairly thin serge one and go and stand outside the door from
three to ten minutes in the snow and cold. In some ways this is one of
the hardest parts of George's job. Racially the negro is peculiarly
sensitive to pneumonia and other pulmonary diseases; yet the rules of a
porter's job require that at stopping stations he must be outside of the
car--no matter what the hour or condition of the climate--smiling and
ready to say:

"What space you got, guv'nor?"

However, the porter's job, like nearly every other job, has its glories
as well as its hardships--triumphs that can be told and retold for many
a day to fascinated colored audiences; because there are special
trains--filled with pursy and prosperous bankers from Hartford and
Rochester and Terre Haute--making the trip from coast to coast and back
again, and never forgetting the porter at the last hour of the last day.

There are many men in the Pullman service like Roger Pryor, who has
ridden with every recent President of the land and enjoyed his
confidence and respect. And then there is General Henry Forrest, of the
Congressional Limited, for twenty-four years in charge of one of its
broiler cars, who stops not at Presidents but enjoys the acquaintance
of senators and ambassadors almost without number.

The General comes to know these dignitaries by their feet. When he is
standing at the door of his train under the Pennsylvania Terminal, in
New York, he recognizes the feet as they come poking down the long
stairs from the concourse. And he can make his smile senatorial or