The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 21, 1901, Page 5

THE SUNDAY CALL. I crossed the bay at differ- observe the stuuts the different rs to sets rry-boats of our presented the palm being the s spent ation for any one who uters will also grant for being the most in existence. in the Those morning darkness pre- Inside the lights were histle's dismal “toot, ke a phantom trip dream ak n were empty. as the boat carried in the hold of the iunch-room were de- sinkers in silence. ieeping around the the boat er of pillowed on his shovel, his face a sllent protest hliness of the hour. He is sleep that alertness for the cars, there!"” ! Tidn’t you hear my deckhand bbed shouted “All ais eyes, dicked up shambled off the slowly 7:45 are the heavies: Iroad term. ts begin to flaunt in. Neat, rks of feminin- But an observ- r ey are some- flirtation s follows and weeks for its sirgle girl and a sin- here meaning alone, for rule know personally.) ters as & e man sit alone. C re ¢ ng. Why not they? But we mmuter knows that it 0 he w He knows that ed to seeing him sitting ol his newspaper perhaps tion 1s the next step his hat and girl =it to- in= says that from his a gradual s the girl and finds on has devel- uded in marriage ers are given nick- s r different stunts. T e is 1 on e of the early boats = s asleep the moment she takes her hie color of her eyes by her fellow com- she awakes, shamefaced, her eyes. She is called seen e 8 e He Twins” are two girls w s S tog<ther and argue with ther on everything, even to-their Shven The Nosegay” is a man who always carr e k h of flowers tied to 1s & promoter who to everything his opponent en brings in an argument that She gets her y and goes back mes a fine-looking 0 cents for a ticket on her safely on the boat. and gets off. Just before she also gets off. is a girl who has been Fair” on the ferry-boat not always thus with have a sweetheart her side, but they had n earlier boat boats carry the great army yed, that must be on time at Great consternation reigns e fog lcoks ominous and the ta w he Lakes ats the man who his alarm clock and got up and utes. His stunt is 2 the restaurant on board e rest. nces at him and returns carry he waiter gls e and sinkers. One of those who do the restaurant gtunt every morning dreamed that the ¢ he had eaten linked them- a chain that chained him to ring it up, he found that at e of two sinkers per day six days week in four years he had eaten sinkers. He could not eat the four hundred and first, o to learn a new stunt. ken enough brown paint called is house. t” of commuters are known as I wonder if they ever ey have walked in the wave crossed the bay? Every delegation that walks back and forth and back across the ¢ the way coming over the bay. acing of the deck makes of commuters—the nervous bout crazy.” three old sports do the pac- 1e of the three for years has p. It has become a habit 4 he accepts it as such and s to change. 2400 these early boats look as ng school had beer estab- board. . The newspaper fiend ne reads just certain parts of T on his trip. ¥ boats are redundant with The conversation of the youth is eated with levity and want of ht, with random resolves, incrim- ng judgments against its fellow man —€iven for the wit they contaln, lished or s and new reign the “Jhe Commuters of the Ferry! &hat Contradictions of Juman Naiure.” When the boat lands and the vouth of the ferry has scampered for the cars it is as though the pulse of boat life was gone. Presto change—with the 8 o’clock cargo! Behold the army of the employers! Prosperous, well dressed and well fed are my commuters from 8 to 10—profes- sional mep and bankers, wha do not have to get to their offices before 9 or 10 o’clock. The hustle and bustle is gone. From 8 to 10 my friends are middle-aged or old— and settled down in life. An experience-taught old gentleman sits in his accustomed seat with his loins girt up with broadcloth and a look of supreme self-satisfaction on his-face. He opens his newspaper and leisurely lays it on his knee while he wipes his glasses. You can see by his “japanned nails” that this is the only manuai labor he does dur- ing the day. He thinks out what others are going to do—and who! In place of the nervous chap who paced the deck last trip there walks one of the landed gentry, who looks critically over the bay to see if it will do. As people have more time to think of their surroundings they get critical and cranky. With the earlier boats the main idea of the cargo is to ‘“get there,” but from 8 o’clock on we begin to meet the cranks. “Who has charge here?”’ demands the woman who periodically registers a kick. “The seats on the back of this boat are wet and not fit for the passengers to sit on. There should be a law against wash- ing the seats during the hours of travel.” Inside the boat a life insurance man holds forth. He is a crank on draughts. He fears a draught as he would the plague. He pays the deck hands 10 cents to keep the doors of the cabin closed, and when he takes a Qup of coffee downstairs it is with the understanding that he shall be near the stove while he drinks it. Everybody knows him and his hobby, and they like to tease him. They throw the doors open while he walks up and down the cabin, hooking them closed with hi cane. But one morning he met his match in a fresh-air fiend, who stood by the open door in the rear of the cabin, These doors are left open for ventilation. “Now, old man,” she said, as she stood at her post of duty, “if you can find me any one else besides yourself who wants this door closed, I'll close it.” “There are a lot of you fresh-air fiends out at Lone Mountain,” he sald, shaking his cane at the cabin passengers. Now and then he swears he will not be bothered by the fresh air fiends of the ferry—he will move to the city and cut out his ferry trip. “All ashore!” shouts the deckhand. “This trip I have to shoo them off the boat as I would a bunch of fiies, but the 7 o'clock boat—law! they almost over- run me.” By 10:30 the regular commuters are landed in San Francisco for the day. Women, who up to this time have been in the minority, now practically own the beats. - The commuters going from San Fran- cisco. at these hours have little of the commercial spirit. On some of these boats the atmosphere of learning is prevalent. University students crossing over to Berkeley sit with their eyes glued to their books and look up vacantly with their thoughts on Ancient Greece. A few eastbound tourists may be seen With. their valises and long folding tick- ets and their friends who go over to sce them off. They are easily distinguishable from the everyday commuter. The commuter is at home on the ferry, but the tourist looks about mystified One tourist asked a commuter if they sold postage stamps on board the boat. “Be sure and write when you get to Denver,” calls the friend who goes over 1o see the tourist off# “Yes, I wi]l,” answers the tourist, and straightway forgets his promise in the many incidents of the moment. + And so from thousands in the mornirg the crowd diminishes to a few score in the middle of the day. A harpisti holds forth on the narrow gauge boat. He plays ‘‘Take Back Your Gold,” and then passes the bat. The early afternoon boats take over the racetrack commuter, who lives in mo- mentary expectation of a fortune. “To win or not to win"—that is the question with him. Perhaps he is wondering where the next meal is coming from, but you would never guess.it to hear him talk. You would think he had never lost a bet when he begins to tell how to pick the winners. He keys himself up to success by the force of his own arguments, and on kis return trip he blames it all on “bad form.” At 4 p. m. the morning crowds begin to return from San Francisco to the dor- mitory side of the bay. The 4 o'clock boat carries back our old gentleman with the “japanned nails,” looking not much the worse for wear. The 6 o’clock boat is the heaviest return- ing boat. The Berkeley carries nearly 2000 people back to the Oakland side on this trip. The 7 o’clock boat to San Fran- cisco takes the fashionable theater crowd. The commuter, who has already crossed once, often recrosses in the evening. The theater crowd returns on the last boat and the lact boat, like the last car, is always interesting. And those who miss the last boat! Wit- ness their faces! Sometimes a tug must be hired. The stolid-faced gatekeeper points down the wharf in the direction of the tugs. It s an every night occurrence with him. He offers a business suggestion, but no sym- pathy The types on the last boat may be classed as the returning pleasure-seeker, the man who tries to think up an excuse for hjs tardiness and the legitimate who has tofled over his accounts and still has not struck a balance. In one corner Mrs. husband. She met woman at the ferry. The other woman wore a huge bunch of violets. These violets seem to be the bone of contention. Hubby says he did not buy the violets and that wifey insulted the lady, for the poor violets will now be strewn over the floor of the ferry depot. The commuters of the ferry! What con- tradictions of human nature, what com- edies, what tragedies, what romances, what follles—what sermons could be woven from this human stream, forty thousand strong, which, actuated by busi- ness and pleasure, cross the bay every day with as much regularity as the tides of the bay that gbb and flow. Verily theAferry is the most democratic thing we have with us! The ferry recognizes no class distine- tion. It has no Pullman departments. If You have 10 cents or a commutation ticket to punch you are entitled to any place on the boat. The democratic ferry asks no questions, but huddles together the millionaire and the pauper, the high-toned crank and the hard-working laborer, the ignorant over- land emigrant and the Berkeley professor. Here sits the poor man of large family, who wonders in vain where he can cut down expenses. Beside him sits the stallfed lady of fashion, who has absorbed more dollars on her beautiful gown thagghe has ever seen at one time. Outside the globe-trotter raves about the Golden Gate—hls exlt to the Orient— and the silent commuter sits and listens. He never raves about anything. For ten, twenty, thirty years he has crossed the bay each day till he has become a regular machine and cares not nor notices the beautiful sunsets nor the Golden Gate. Here is a gentleman of the cloth, a Methodist preacher, whose mania is sav- ing souls. He sits on the lower deck in order to witness the depravity of man- kind. The funniest stunt of all is the one per- formed by the comrauter who misses his boat. He invariably swears that he is going to move to San Francisco. “All aboard!” shouts the gatekeeper and he slams the iron gate in the face of the commuter. The gatekeeper toddles to his office with the indifference of a judge of the Spanish inquisition. The commuter who is a quar- ter of a second late watches him blankly, as though words were too weak to utter his thoughts. The commuter must wait half an hour. It is a time when a quarter of a second means half an hour. An expurgated edition of his talk might lead one to belleve that he was going to move to San Francisco the very next day. But he doesn’t! He is five minutes early the next night—that is all. During his half-hour of walting the commuter will tell you what a dull place Oakland is; how lacking it is in amuse- ments of all kinds. He will tell you that San Francisco is the only city around the bay to live in, etc., but he will buy his commutation ticket at the end of the month just as he has done for the months in the past that have welded themsecives Into years. If he be a commutecr from Berkeley he will tell you that 1t takes two hours out of his day to live there. He will even figure these hours up into days and tell you how many months he has spent on the ferry-boats. But he has the commutation habit gooted in his nature and he treats it as Caudle scolds her him with another incurable. He will complain and live in Berkeley always. He is a martyr to the cause of commutation! The commuter on the inside of the gate invariably laughs at his friend who gets left, but it is a laugh in which mirth is seasoned with sympathy. He knows that “be laughs best who laughs last,” and to- morrow night the langher himself may be late. Tkese last-minute men for five minutes before time to go home to the vernal sid of the bay keep their eyes on clock and c Three minute loads of time minutes to spare Two @ But one min for move. “Think I'll get the boat?” sald a breat less commuter headed for the ferry. “Well,” said the old commuter, who had slowed up, f you run as you are running now you will be two minutes late, but if you run just as fast as you can you'll be one minute On the Oakiand side It is different. The trains take the passengers right to the pler. They wait in the depot for the boat to land and discharge its eastbound cargo, then the iron gate opened and they file in, chatting leisurely. And this is the burden of their talk: “Skall we sit inside or outside?” “I don’t care. “Well, then let’s sit outside.” “Isn’t it too eold?” “Well, then let's sit inside.” Foggy, Isn’t 1t?" Hadn’t we better sit inside? In or out—which?" ‘“Let’s sit outside and inhale the fresh alr. It's the only chance we have during the day.” ““Oh, our place Is taken.” “Wonder 1f it is going to be rough going over?” “Outside “Inside’ w“lno “Out?* This seems to be a universal stunt for the commuters. Many have their regular seats, whers they have sat Zor years, and if thelr res- ular seats are taken they are thrown out of gear for the rest of the day. An old fellow who looks as if he had just stepped out of one of Dickens’ books used to hurry past every body on the ferry to get his accustomed seat. One morning he found a number of mis- chievous university boys sitting calmly there. They had to run to get ahead of the old man. This race for the seat continued for sev- eral days. Finally the old man fldgeted about so uneasily that the boys gave up the place by a unanimous vote and the old man immediately took it and looked happy once more. There is a “cult” of commuters who buy no tickets and pay no fares. The sea- gulls travel back and forth all day, efr- cling around tbe ferry boats with an abandon that contrasts stronsly with the stunts of the commuters. Thelr stunt is to purposely miss a boat. The seagulls take life rationally. They follow the ferry over and rest a trip, perched on thelr pler, pluming thelr wings and cooing—then they follow the next boat back. The commuters have named some of their seagull friends. Some commuters take bread with them every day and thelr role on the ferry i8 to throw bits of bread into the alr and bet on whether McKinley or Brvan, or Cleveland or Agul- naldo, or Queen Victoria, or David Harum will get it. Here are bits from the conversations of the commuters taken when “The day is done and the darkness Falls from the wings of night, And the stunts of the commuters are over. The show Is out. “He was the last man out of the buflding and when he loeked up tae iron door he heard a scream inside, so he went back. He went up to the second story and he didn’t find nothing there: he went up to the third story and he didn’t find nothing there, neither: then he went up to the fourth story and . . . . . We always eat butter on ours . . . . . Oakland this way . . . . . But he ought to have got more monmey for ft . . . . . It began by a littls pimple on the end of his finger . . . . . Came over on the 10 boat to-day, perfectly lovely! e I wonder what got Scotch John on the bum. Didn’t he join the union? No! No? e« o« « o« « Got some of the darlingest samples to-day. . . . . They're afraid it will run into comsumption . . . . . See those gloves; pald $25 for them. Aren’t they swell? . . . Napa, Cal- istoga, Vallejo, Martinez, Santa Rosa, El Dorado train this way . . That new man we've got won't do. No? No, he ain’t got no savvy about him #a Ogden and overland trains this way. « .+ . - - With a blas gors run down the side . . . . . Baggage? Baggage, madam? . . . . Yes, they are very happy « . . Its fine for bunions and warts; rub it on just befors you go to bed . . . . . Do your children speak English? Yes, much better mor I do. They vos go to the public school. They understand it per-fec’-ly . . I give you the tip. Yes, you're so full of ofl you're spit- tng ft. .. . . . Ha, hal . . . . . Buisun, Davisville, Sacramento. Reno Ogden and overland trains this wa: PR Write soon and tell me w you get along. Give my love to Charley. Kiss baby for me. . . . The peo- ple in the lower flat are quiet. You get the key at the grocery.’. . . . . Ho came In the store abait noon, but I dlda’t letonIsawhim . . . . It's a quiet life for an ald man and we are all get- ting along, you know . . . . . Sha takes complexion tablets . . . . . I telephoned him that the parties had been to supper and we'd like to have him join us and make a party of four . . . . . . As I told my husband, ‘Georgs,’ sez T, ‘them children is perfect devils'—them’'s the very words I said . . . . . Pretty hard to get a job like that .« o My black silk trimmed with insertion « « + « « That's Jim—but there are a lot of fellows worse than Jim Fredericks You can’t get them here like you can up In . . . . . Yes, she's a pretty old lady—about 75 years—and she married a young blacksmith from p . . Who was that peach you introducad me to on the 7:30 this morning? Say! Well, she is all . . . . . Bunkoed again! Fifteen hundred dollars Invested and I get .« « « « Man alive! Get a piece of real estate. Work it up and make oil come out offt . . . . . Anexamination In Eng- lish and one in French to-morrow . - . You don't need an office if you can get the Investment money. HEasy—easyl « « « . Painted green to the bilge +« « « « He happened to be a friend of that woman’s A fellow gets so lonely over in Alameda . . . With an accordeon plaited ruffle . . . « « Good-by; gee you to-morrow , , . . . Jf you mix the.batter well and then put in your raisins you'll have no trouble . . . . . Give me a light. My pipe’s gone out, Good-by,”