Explore "Compartment Number Four -- Cologne to Paris" by Francis Hopkinson Smith on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
He was looking through a hole -- a square hole, framed about with mahogany and ground glass. His face was red, his eyes were black, his mustache -- waxed to two needle-points -- was a yellowish brown; his necktie blue and his uniform dark chocolate seamed with little threads of vermilion and incrusted with silver poker-chip buttons emblazoned with the initials of the corporation which he served.
I knew I was all right when I read the initials. I had found the place and the man. The place was the ticket-office of the International Sleeping-Car Company. The man was its agent.