And in his seat on the left, Mr.Atwood Graves, junior partner in the New York firm of Sylvester, Kuhn and Graves, lawyers, stirred uneasily on the lumpy plush cushion, looked at his watch, then at the time-table in his hand, noted that the train was now seventy-two minutes late, and for at least the fifteenth time mentally cursed the railway company, the whole of Cape Cod from Sandwich to Provincetown, and the fates which had brought him there.
The train slowed down, in a jerky, hiccoughy sort of way, and crept on till the car in which Mr.Graves was seated was abreast the lighted windows of a small station, where it stopped.

Peering through the water-streaked pane at the end of his seat, the lawyer saw dim silhouettes of uncertain outline moving about.

They moved with provoking slowness.

He felt that it would be joy unspeakable to rush out there and thump them into animation.

The fact that the stately Atwood Graves even thought of such an undignified proceeding is sufficient indication of his frame of mind.
Then, behind the door which the brakeman, after announcing the station, had closed again, sounded a big laugh.