Only the military aides of the President lament upon the informality of his travel. Some time since a great executive was making the familiar loop throughout the West. The superintendent of a division of line the far side of the Missouri was a worrier, and was personally watching the progress. In order to facilitate rear platform oratory the President's cars were placed at the rear of a train that hardly ranked as express. Between towns the delays grew frequent and a stuffy little aide in uniform protested to the superintendent. "Look a' here, sir," he said stiffly, "why don't you let these other trains up the line wait?" The division was single-track. "You know this is the President's train." A twinkle came into the super's eye. "You're wrong," he said, in the positive tones of a real executive. "This is _not_ the President's special. This is train number 67 of the B----main line, and she hasn't many more rights on the time-card than a gravel limited. Now if you were snitching along on our cracker-jack Nippon Limited--there's some train, sir. They wouldn't lay her out. She's double-extra first-class all the way through to the coast." The point of that was not lost. An instance of a different sort occurred some years ago, when Mr. Roosevelt went up into Northern New York to make a speech. The superintendent of the old Black River road was pretty proud of his stretch of line, and invited the then Governor to ride in his neat inspection engine. "Dee-lighted," said he of the gleaming teeth, and he climbed up into the big cab. The superintendent wondered what he'd think of that nifty stretch of track just north of Lewville. Col. Roosevelt never thought. As soon as he was settled in the cab he picked a well-thumbed copy of Carlyle's "French Revolution" out of his pocket and read it every inch of the way from Utica to Watertown. The Republican party had to worry along thereafter without that superintendent's vote. * * * * * All the superintendents cannot become general managers or railroad presidents; there is not room at the top for even a decent proportion of the best of them. The real tragedy on the division comes when a Prince grows old and for the first time realizes that he is never to be King. When such tragedy shows its head it is time for the stove committee--the men who gossip in roundhouse corners and the yardmaster's office--to talk in whispers.