her dining, the cable cars in the evening carry a
stratum of society which looks like a new one, but it is of the familiar
strata in other clothes. It is just as good as a new stratum, however,
for in evening dress the average man feels that he has gone up three
pegs in the social scale, and there is considerable evening dress about
a Broadway car in the evening. A car with its electric lamp resembles a
brilliantly-lighted salon, and the atmosphere grows just a trifle
strained. People sit more rigidly, and glance sidewise, perhaps, as if
each was positive of possessing social value, but was doubtful of all
others. The conductor says: "Ah, gwan. Git off th' earth." But this is
to a man at Canal Street. That shows his versatility. He stands on the
platform and beams in a modest and polite manner into the car. He notes
a lifted finger and grabs swiftly for the bell strap. He reaches down to
help a woman aboard. Perhaps his demeanour is a reflection of the manner
of the people in the car. No one is in a mad New York hurry; no one is
fretting and muttering; no one is perched upon his neighbour's toes.
Moreover, the Tenderloin is a glory at night. Broadway of late years has
fallen heir to countless signs illuminated with red, blue, green, and
gold electric lamps, and the people certainly fly to these as the moths
go to a candle. And perhaps the gods have allowed this opportunity to
observe and study the best-dressed crowds in the world to operate upon
the conductor until his mood is to treat us with care and mildness.

Late at night, after the diners and theatre-goers have been lost in
Harlem, various inebriate persons may perchance emerge from the darker
regions of Sixth Avenue and swing their arms solemnly at the gripman. If
the Broadway cars run for the next 7000 years this will be the only time
when one New Yorker will address another in public without an excuse
sent direct from heaven. In these cars late at night it is not
impossible that some fearless drunkard will attempt to inaugurate a
general conversation. He is quite willing to devote his ability to the
affair. He tells of the fun he thinks he has had; describes his
feelings; recounts stories of his dim past. None reply, although all
listen with every ear. The rake probably ends by borrowing a match,
lighting a cigar, and entering into a wrangle with the conductor with an
_abandon_, a ferocity, and a courage that do not come to us when we are
sober.

In the meant