does it matter that he (probably) knows less about cooking than you
or I? He gazes with glorious cheer upon the wretched middle class,
and as our train rolls away we see him still gazing across the
darkling cellars of the station with that untroubled gleam of
condescension, his eyes seeming (as we look back at them) as large
and white and unspeculative as billiard balls.

In the eye of one commuter, the 12:50 SATURDAY ONLY is the
most exciting train of all. What a gay, heavily-bundled, and
loquacious crowd it is that gathers by the gate at the Atlantic
Avenue terminal. There is a holiday spirit among the throng, which
pants a little after the battle down and up those steps leading from
the subway. (What a fine sight, incidentally, is the stag-like stout
man who always leaps from the train first and speeds scuddingly
along the platform, to reach the stairs before any one else.) Here
is the man who always carries a blue cardboard box full of chicks.
Their plaintive chirpings sound shrill and disconsolate. There is
such a piercing sorrow and perplexity in their persistent query that
one knows they have the true souls of minor poets. Here are two
cheerful stenographers off to Rockaway for the week-end. They are
rather sarcastic about another young woman of their party who always
insists on sleeping under sixteen blankets when at the shore.

But the high point of the trip comes when one changes at Jamaica,
there boarding the 1:15 for Salamis. This is the train that on
Saturdays takes back the two famous club cars, known to all
travellers on the Oyster Bay route. Behind partly drawn blinds the
luncheon tables are spread; one gets narrow glimpses of the great
ones of the Island at their tiffin. This is a militant moment for
the white-jacketed steward of the club car. On Saturdays there are