In no way was he different from the American working man of the same class, except that he did not chew tobacco and therefore did not indulge in the practice which usually accompanies that accomplishment. In order to ascertain what chances there were for English conversation, I addressed him in that language, and his answers in broken English were certainly more entertaining than the abrupt "yes" or "no" which one often receives from the native fellow traveller, to whom it is usually a matter of indifference whether or not the time hangs heavily on one's hands. At the next station the smoking-car was relieved of its surplus passengers, and my neighbour with all his countrymen was driven into it with rough gestures. I am very proud of the courage I displayed by turning in my seat and addressing the man who sat behind me. "Won't you please tell me," I said, hesitatingly, "why you wouldn't share your seat with one of those men?" I fully expected him to say, "It's none of your business," but his stern face relaxed for a moment as he replied, with a rising inflection, "Dagos," and then looked as stern as before. I was not satisfied by that answer and said so. This opened the way for an argument, and conversation was soon in full swing. "What right have those Dagos to come to this country, anyway?" he retorted, when I pleaded that those men had paid their fares and had the same right that he had, to a seat. I soon discovered that neither logic nor ethics was his strong point; so I thought I would try him on history. "Do you know," I asked, "who was the first 'Dago' that came to this country?" For a moment he put his thinking apparatus to work; then he said, and I am quoting his words exactly: "I suppose it was somebody by the name of Macaroni, who sold bananas when he landed in New York, and talked an outlandish gibberish." "No," I replied, "his name was Christopher Columbus, and if it had not been for that 'Dago' you would still be undiscovered." I had great difficulty in making my fellow traveller believe that there are cities in Italy more beautiful than Pittsburg; but when I told him that a "Dago" built the largest church in the world, his materialistic sense was touched and he began to listen respectfully to what I said. "The same 'Dago' who built that church carved statuary so beautiful that whenever any man wishes to free the 'imprisoned splendour of the stone' (I did not quote Michael Angelo to him, however), he has to go to see what that 'Dago' has done. "And that same man," I continued, "painted a ceiling which is one of the great art wonders of the world. His name is Michael Angelo." "I never heard of him." "I know of another 'Dago'" I continued, emphasizing "Dago," "who painted a picture for which even _you_ might be willing to pay $500." "I'd like to see it!" When I mentioned Raphael and the Sistine Madonna, he did have some vague idea of what I was trying to convey to him; for these were fairly familiar names.