In the Lalla Rookh

The car in itself was in no way remarkable. A twelve-section and
drawing-room, mahogany-finish, wide-vestibule sleeper, done in cream
brown, hangings shading into Indian reds--a type of the Pullman car so
popular some years ago for transcontinental travel; neither too heavy
for the mountains nor too light for the pace across the plains.

There were many features added to the passenger schedule on the West
End the year Henry S. Brock and his friends took hold of the road, but
none made more stir than the new Number One, run then as a crack
passenger train, a strictly limited, vestibuled string, with barbers,
baths, grill rooms, and five-o'clock tea. In and out Number One was
the finest train that crossed the Rockies, and bar nobody's.

It was October, with the Colorado travel almost entirely eastbound and
the California travel beginning, westbound, and the Lalla Rookh sleeper
being deadheaded to the coast on a special charter for an O. and O.
steamer party; at least, that was all the porter knew about its
destination, and he knew more than anyone else.

At McCloud, where the St. Louis connection is made, Number One sets out
a diner and picks up a Portland sleeper--so it happened that the Lalla
Rookh, hind car to McCloud, afterward lay ahead of the St. Louis car,
and the trainmen passed, as occasion required, through it--lighted down
the gloomy aisle by a single Pintsch burner, choked to an all-night
dimness.