Conversation becomes broken, porters are beset on every side with questions they cannot answer, rushes are made on any empty carriages within reach, a child is knocked down and cries.
Over all this excitement and confusion one man is presiding, untiring, forceful, ubiquitous--a sturdy man, somewhere about five feet ten, whose lungs are brass and nerves fine steel wire.

He is dressed, as to his body, in brown corduroy trousers, a blue jacket and waistcoat with shining brass buttons, a grey flannel shirt, and a silver-braided cap, which, as time passes, he thrusts further back on his head till its peak stands at last almost erect, a crest seen high above the conflict.
As to the soul of him, this man is clothed with resolution, courage, authority, and an infectious enthusiasm.

He is the brain and will of the whole organism, its driving power.

Drivers lean out of their engines, one hand on the steam throttle, their eyes fixed on this man; if he waves his hands, trains move; if he holds them up, trains halt.
Strings of carriages out in the open are carrying out his plans, and the porters toil like maniacs to meet his commands.

Piles of luggage disappear as he directs the attack, and his scouts capture isolated boxes hidden among the people.