Roughing it De Luxe | Page 3

Pueblo Indian who was peddling
bows and arrows, and heard him ask the Indian, as man to man, if he
would have to change at Williams for the Grand Cañon.
When he was not worrying about changing at Williams he showed
anxiety upon the subject of the proper clothes to be worn while looking
at the Grand Cañon. Among others he asked me about it. I could not
help him. I had decided to drop in just as I was, and then to be
governed by circumstances as they might arise; but he was not
organized that way. On the morning of the last day, as we rolled up
through the pine barrens of Northern Arizona toward our destination,
those of us who had risen early became aware of a terrific struggle
going on behind the shrouding draperies of that upper berth of his.
Convulsive spasms agitated the green curtains. Muffled swear words
uttered in a low but fervent tone filtered down to us. Every few seconds

a leg or an arm or a head, or the butt-end of a suitcase, or the bulge of a
valise, would show through the curtains for a moment, only to be
abruptly snatched back.
Speculation concerning the causes of these strange manifestations
ran--as the novelists say--rife. Some thought that, overcome with
disappointment by the discovery that we had changed at Williams in
the middle of the night, without his knowing anything about it, he was
having a fit all alone up there. Presently the excitement abated; and
then, after having first lowered his baggage, our friend descended to the
aisle and the mystery was explained. He had solved the question of
what to wear while gazing at the Grand Cañon. He was dressed in a
new golf suit, complete--from the dinky cap to the Scotch plaid
stockings. If ever that man visits Niagara, I should dearly love to be on
hand to see him when he comes out to view the Falls, wearing his
bathing suit.
Some of us aboard that train did not seem to care deeply for the desert;
the cactus possibly disappointed others; and the mesquit failed to give
general satisfaction, though at a conservative estimate we passed
through nine million miles of it. A few of the delegates from the
Eastern seaboard appeared to be irked by the tribal dancing of the Hopi
Indians, for there was not a turkey-trotter in the bunch, the Indian
settlements of Arizona being the only terpsichorean centers in this
country to which the Young Turk movement had not penetrated yet.
Some objected to the plains because they were so flat and plainlike, and
some to the mountains because of their exceedingly mountainous
aspect; but on one point we all agreed--on the uniform excellence of the
dining-car service.
It is a powerfully hard thing for a man to project his personality across
the grave. In making their wills and providing for the carrying on of
their pet enterprises a number of our richest men have endeavored from
time to time to disprove this; but, to date, the percentage of successes
has not been large. So far as most of us are concerned the burden of
proof shows that in this regard we are one with the famous little dog
whose name was Rover--when we die, we die all over. Every big

success represents the personality of a living man; rarely ever does it
represent the personality of a dead man.
The original Fred Harvey is dead--has been dead, in fact, for several
years; but his spirit goes marching on across the southwestern half of
this country. Two thousand miles from salt water, the oysters that are
served on his dining cars do not seem to be suffering from car-sickness.
And you can get a beefsteak measuring eighteen inches from tip to tip.
There are spring chickens with the most magnificent bust development
I ever saw outside of a burlesque show; and the eggs taste as though
they might have originated with a hen instead of a cold-storage vault. If
there was only a cabaret show going up and down the middle of the car
during meals, even the New York passengers would be satisfied with
the service, I think.
There is another detail of the Harvey system that makes you wonder.
Out on the desert, in a dead-gray expanse of silence and sagebrush,
your train halts at a junction point that you never even heard of before.
There is not much to be seen--a depot, a 'dobe cabin or so, a few frame
shacks, a few natives, a few Indians and a few incurably languid
Mexicans--and that is positively all there is except that, right out there
in the middle of nowhere, stands a hotel big enough and handsome
enough for Chicago or New York, built