Philip's reply was a blow, given so suddenly and planted so squarely in

the conductor's face, that it sent him reeling over a fat passenger, who

was looking up in mild wonder that any one should dare to dispute with a

conductor, and against the side of the car.

He recovered himself, reached the bell rope, "Damn you, I'll learn you,"

stepped to the door and called a couple of brakemen, and then, as the

speed slackened; roared out,

Get off this train."

I shall not get off. I have as much right here as you."

We'll see," said the conductor, advancing with the brakemen. The

passengers protested, and some of them said to each other, "That's too

bad," as they always do in such cases, but none of them offered to take a

hand with Philip. The men seized him, wrenched him from his seat,

dragged him along the aisle, tearing his clothes, thrust him from the

car, and, then flung his carpet-bag, overcoat and umbrella after him.

And the train went on.

The conductor, red in the face and puffing from his exertion, swaggered

through the car, muttering "Puppy, I'll learn him." The passengers, when

he had gone, were loud in their indignation, and talked about signing a

protest, but they did nothing more than talk.

304

The Gilded Age