"Peter," I exclaimed inwardly, "what do

    you

   know about the etiquette of the street car? According to the newspapers it is only a Man who can be a Hog on the street cars, and since you are the original cause of blockading the port when you moved over,

    you

   must be the Hog!"

   Then I got so mad at myself that I refused to talk to myself any further.

   The next day I was riding downtown on the end seat with my mind made up to stay there and keep the harbor open for commerce.

   "Never," I said to myself, "never will anyone become a human Merrimac to bottle up the seating capacity of this particular bench while the blood flows through these veins and the flag of freedom waves above me."

   At the next corner a very thin little gentleman squeezed by me with a look of reproach on his face the like of which I hope never to see again, but I was Charles J. Glue and firm in the end seat.

   Then a couple of Italy's sunny sons by the names of Microbeini and Germicide crawled over me and kicked their initials on my knee-cap and then sat down to enjoy a smoke of domestic rope which fell across my nostrils and remained there in bitterness.

   After I had been stepped on, sat on, clawed at and scowled at for twenty minutes, I began to discuss myself to myself.

   "Peter," I whispered, "do you really think that the general public appreciates your efforts to keep the Harbor open?"

   And then myself replied to myself with a sigh of exhaustion, "I don't think!"

   "Peter," I said to myself, "no matter what your motives may be the other fellow will always believe you are trying to get the best of it. If you move over and give the end seat to another gentleman he will consider it only what is his right. If you don't move over he will think you are a Hog for keeping that which is as much yours as his."

   I began to grow confidential with myself.

   "Civilization is a fine 

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