The
Talkative Driver: Of a Hamilton Street Car Tells of his Life: To a Spectator
Reporter – Notes and Anecdotes o the Track – A Driver’s Lot is not a Happy One
Spectator
August 21, 1883
“That man what got off the car a
moment ago is one of the greatest cranks I ever seed,”said the driver on a
Hamilton streetcar to a reporter who was riding on it last evening. “If you had
been on a little while ago, you would have seen the fun. Every time he goes
down, and he rides with me everyday, I have to ask him for his fare. When I ask
him, he always says: “ Oh! I put it in a minute ago.” “No, sir,” sez I, “ you
didn’t.” “Are you sure?” sez he. “Yes, sir,” sez I. Then he puts it in. Trying
to beat? You bet your life he is. He worked it on me two or three times when I
came on, and was pretty green, but I’m on to him now, and you bet it’s a pretty
cold day when he gets ahead of me.”
“ Do you strike many beats in a day’s
ride?”
“ Well, yes, quite a few. And what’s
surprisin’ about it, they’re mostly old men. It’s only once in a while a woman
tries to beat her way, but when she does try it, I tell you she’s a sticker.
They’re so positive, and when you threaten to put ‘em off, they say they’ll
report a fellow to the superintendent. The worst case I ever saw was on that
tried it on me about a week ago. She was a stunner I tell you. Dark blue eyes,
blonde hair and a complexion that was just fit to kill. She was togged up in
elegant style too. Well, she got on my car just as I was turning the corner of
Stuart street. I waited for a couple of blocks and as she made no sign of
putting in her fare I asked her for it. “ Why, driver,” sez she, “ I put it in
when I first got on the car.” “No, mem” sez I, “you’re a-makin’ a mistake.” “Do
you mean to insult me?” sez she. “No,” sez I, “I don’t. But I mean to say you
haven’t put your fare in the box.” Well, sir, she got right up on her ear, and
the way she did lay it on me with her tongue was a caution.” After a while she
put her fare in, but she made me give her my name and the number of my car, and
I thought she was going to try and get me in trouble for acting so stubborn
with her, but she never said nothin’ about it. Human nature’s a queer thing, by
gosh! I can’t see, for the life of me, what prompts people who are well fixed,
to try and beat the street car company out of a poor little five cent piece;
but they do it, and the reason why has staggered me heaps of times. It’s pure
cussedness, I suppose, as much as anything.”
The driver stopped talking, and the
reporter lit a fresh cigar, and smoked on in silence. Presently the knight of
the reins commenced again.
“ It’s a terrible hard life this
streetcar driving,” he said.
“Yes?’
“ Yes, sir; you bet it is. We have to
keep it up from early in the morning until late at night. We have nothing to
protect us against the inclency of the weather.-“
“Against what?’
“The indeclency of the weather”
“Inclemency you mean.”
“Inclemency is it ? All right. Well,
as I was sayin’, we have to stand out here and take everything as it comes, and
only get a dog’s pay for it. It’s hard times I tell you. We have a tougher time
of it than any class of the community.”
“You think so, do you ?”
“Why, yes. Can’t you see for
yourself.?”
The reporter thought of almost every
other class of social fabric, and remembering that each one of them had
grievances built on the same basis was silent.
“ I couldn’t wish my deadliest enemy
any worse fate than driving on a street car,” the driver continued. “I wish
you’d try it sometime and see. You’d be able to sympathise with us then.”
“No thanks,” said the reporter.
Then the driver put his head inside
the door, called “Fares, please,” and as the reporter reached his objective
point, he jumped off the car, which went quickly on down the dark street until
nothing could be seen of it but the lamp.
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