There are times when a man can be very dense. During the past year I have crossed the continent twice—stood by the "wine-dark" Pacific and mused by "the salt, unplumbed, estranging" Atlantic—and all through the journey, both going and coming, a piece of news that will interest all travellers was "tickling my consciousness with the tip of its tail." But not until my last day's travel did I make the discovery that aroused both amusement and wrath. The story of it will now be told for the first time because it will do as well as anything else to show a kind of international tie that binds more securely than the arrangements effected through diplomatic channels. Business takes no heed of boundaries that are defined for patriotic reasons. It recognizes them only when they can be used to its advantage. This incident will also show how enterprise and organization may defeat democracy, and that although we may be equal before the law our case may be different before a Pullman car porter.
At different times during the past few years I have meditated writing an essay on America—including the United States and Canada—as "The Land of Upper Berths." No matter how far ahead I planned my trips and tried to make reservations I could never get a lower berth in a sleeping-car. But there were always uppers to be had and night after night I clambered aloft. Always trying to make the best of everything I finally got so that I rather liked them on account of the better ventilation, roomier quarters, etc.
From time to time my nose for news sniffed at the prevailing conditions and I wondered vaguely at the type of passengers who were always so fortunate as to have lower berths. Instead of being "The beautiful, pampered women of the wealthy bourgeoisie," they were usually brisk young business men. Not only did they get the lower berths, but having greater facilities for getting out of bed in the morning they were always first at the washbowls and took an unconscionable time at their morning ablutions; shaving expertly while the train speeded around curves and grooming themselves like bridegrooms, while we poor upper-berthers sat around, yawning sleepily and admiring the backs of their silk undershirts and the nice warm suspenders that cost as much as an ordinary man used to pay for a suit of clothes. They primped and preened and left the rest of us only time to wash sketchily before reaching our destination. Then they stepped from the train in flawless form and ready to do business. Having had this experience over and over again from Toronto to Vancouver and from Vancouver to New York, I should have guessed something, but I was dense. That sleeping-car feeling dulled my perceptions.
Out in Calgary I was given an explanation of the phenomenon that put me on the wrong track and lulled my sense of outrage. I had protested to the porter of one of the palatial hotels because he failed to get me a lower berth to Lethbridge.
"Too late," he said cheerfully. "All the lower berths going both ways are reserved two weeks ahead."
"What's the reason?"
"Everybody is travelling. If I wasn't a married man and tied down I would be travelling myself."
Certainly everybody did seem to be travelling, for the hotels were crowded to the limit and one had to telegraph a week ahead to get reservations. Many times even that precaution failed. Often I have slept on a cot in a corridor, and on several occasions when the corridors were full I got a berth on a cot in the manager's office.
But the lower-berth gentry never had any trouble of that kind. They would walk right up to the clerk's desk and register with an air of authority utterly impossible to a man who has been sleeping in a top berth and is looking dishevelled after dressing hastily. And they were never disappointed. While others were sitting around waiting for some one to check out so that they could get even an inside room opening on an airshaft, the travelling princes would be led to the elevators by obsequious bell-boys and personally conducted to palatial rooms with a southern exposure and a bath. Having a keen sense of my own carelessness and lack of foresight, I always humbly attributed my misfortunes to my own shiftlessness and mildly envied men who could have their minds so constantly fixed on sublunary affairs that they always got the best of everything.
Finally I got what I thought was a possible way out of my troubles—at least as far as lower berths were concerned. Often I had been told that if I came around about an hour before the train started I might get a lower berth. Some one who had a reservation might fail to turn up and if I was on hand I might be the lucky one to get that lower berth. As I never put much faith in the suggestion I did not put it to the test, but when coming home from New York last week I had to come a couple of days sooner than I expected and arrived at the ticket office about an hour before the train started. The impossible happened. I got a lower berth. I don't know when I have felt so puffed up. At last I was on terms of equality with the aristocrats of the travelling public. Their "gallusses" might still make a finer showing than mine in the dressing-room, but as I shouldn't have to wait for the porter to bring me a ladder I could probably beat them to the washbowls in the morning. The country habit of early rising would stand me in good stead in a competition of this kind. All the way up to Poughkeepsie I felt the dignity of being a lower-berth passenger and kept aloof from the common herd of people who have to climb to upper berths. Being new in my class I did not feel quite up to interviewing other lower-berthers and discussing high matters of international relations with them. Once during the evening a Georgian from Atlanta asked me for information and my reply made him so sad that perhaps it was as well that I kept to myself. He asked me if there were any bars handy to the train when we should get to Niagara Falls, Canada. I was obliged to break the news to him that the nearest bar would probably be in Montreal. His distress was pitiful. Like almost every one else in the United States he thought that all Canada is wide open. And just think of it! He might have taken the trip to Montreal just as easily as the trip to Toronto. He was holidaying anyway. But I have wandered from my story.
While crossing the lake from Lewiston to Toronto I had dinner and engaged in conversation with a well-set-up business man who was placed at the same table with me. Being full of pride over that lower berth I casually mentioned the wonderful luck I had had on the previous night. He smiled a superior smile.
"I travel quite a bit," he said loftily, "but I am never troubled that way."
Here at last was a bona-fide lower-berther who might be induced to enlighten me.
"Indeed?" I insinuated.
"You see I am a member of——and it attends to all such matters as getting lower berths, hotel accommodations, and choice theatre seats for its members."
That was a large and illuminating piece of news to be given out in one sentence. I registered polite interest, being careful not to arouse his suspicion by any show of eagerness. As I expected, he went on and expanded his theme. He did a great deal of travelling, but by being a member of this organization all he needed to do was to state his requirements a day in advance and he would be properly looked after on the trains and in the hotels either in the United States or Canada. They always had plenty of reservations ahead so that they could look after all travelling members. They held these reservations until an hour or so before the trains started and then returned those they did not require. He paid an annual fee of moderate proportions which he regarded as an insurance premium—insuring comfort in travel. He did not explain how the hotels and theatres are approached so that rooms and seats may be secured, but it is managed all right. Not a bad arrangement for the favorites of fortune, but how about the ordinary public? Are not Pullman cars, hotels, and theatres operating under licenses or charters insuring equal opportunities for all? If not, why not?
