“You ought to read the papers,” said he; “then you wouldn’t act like such a lobster. Things ain’t run like they used to be, my friend; me and my partner has bought this car, and we’re running it around, getting custom where we can.” “Ain’t there no more railroad company?” said the lost soul confronting him. “Nope,” answered Tommie with a yawn. “The hull trolley business is in the hands of private parties like us--and we’re losing money on you by the second. Skip!” From this on, 809 developed more eccentricities of character. Sometimes she stopped for passengers like a perfectly normal trolley car, but if Jimmie did not like the looks of people as they drew near she bounded ahead like an antelope, when the foot of habit was reaching for her step. Then, at a place of pleasant greenery, refreshing to the city eye, she often moved up and down the block several times while her managers enjoyed the change of scene. This attracted some attention. They always slowed the car fully to explain to the out-landers the strange, new conditions existing in the trolley world. The passengers made no complaint. It is so much the custom for the free American to accept almost anything in uniform as a part of Nature, and a Nature that grows violent on provocation, that the half-dozen offspring of the eagle perched mildly upon their seats without complaint. Perhaps they liked it. One stout and jolly old gentleman enjoyed the discourse immensely, even joining in the spread of misinformation. A pallid little woman, with a very large baby, timidly accosted Jimmie. She wanted to go to a certain place at least five miles distant, on a branch line. Jimmie appealed to the chivalry of the passengers. “We have got your nickels,” said he, “but this here lady has been misled. We feel as if we oughter take her where she belongs. No objections?” The passengers looked at each other and said nothing. “Let her fly, Jimmie. We have got to make that five miles in six minutes to keep up with our idee of things,” said Tommie. They arrived at the street, but the little woman’s destination was several blocks from the trolley track. Jimmie escorted her, carrying her basket, while the stout old gentleman, saying that he would like to stretch his legs, carried the baby. In the meantime, the car that really belonged on that track came from the opposite direction. I will not repeat what that motorman said. There is a sign on all trolley cars, “Don’t speak to the motorman.” It is a good piece of advice, because you might not like what the motorman would say to you in reply. He waved his hands and told 809 to get on about its business. He wanted to know why she was there, in a tone that made the fourth-story windows fly open. “What d’yer mean by sitting there like a toad in a rain-storm, holding us up when we’re twenty minutes late already?” he finished. Tommie spread his hands with a gesture of deprecation. “Orders,” he replied in explanation. “I can’t help it.”