It was a bitterly cold night, and even at the far end of the bus the east wind that along the street cut like a knife. The bus stopped, and two women and a man got in together and filled the vacant places. The younger woman was dressed in sealskin, and carried one of those little Pekinese dogs that women in sealskin like to carry in their laps. The conductor came in and took the fares. Then his eye rested with cold on the beady-eyed toy dog. I saw trouble . This was the opportunity for which he had been waiting, and he intended to make the most of it. I had marked him as the type of what Mr. Wells has called the Resentful Employee, the man with a general vague against everything and a particular grievance against passengers who came and sat in his bus while he shivered at the door.  
"You must take that dog out," he said with sour .
 
"I shall certainly do nothing of the kind. You can take my name and address," said the woman, who had evidently expected the challenge and knew the reply.
 
"You must take that dog out—that's my orders."
 
"I won't go on the top in such weather. It would kill me," said the woman.
 
"Certainly not," said her lady companion. "You've got a cough as it is."
 
"It's nonsense," said her male companion. The conductor pulled the bell and the bus stopped. "This bus doesn't go on until that dog is brought out." And he stepped on to the pavement and waited. It was his moment of triumph. He had the law on his side and a whole busful of angry people under the harrow. His soul was having a real holiday.
 
The storm inside rose high. "Shameful"; "He's no better than a German"; "Why isn't he in the Army?"; "Call the police"; "Let's all report him"; "Let's make him give us our fares back"; "Yes, that's it, let's make him give us our fares back." For everybody was on the side of the lady and the dog.
 
That little animal sat blinking at the dim lights in happy unconsciousness of the rumpus of which he was the cause.
 
The conductor came to the door. "What's your number?" said one, taking out a pocketbook with a gesture of terrible things. "There's my number," said the conductor . "Give us our fares back—you've engaged to carry us—you can't leave us here all night." "No fares back," said the conductor.
 
Two or three passengers got out and disappeared into the night. The conductor took another turn on the pavement, then went and had a talk with the driver. Another bus, the last on the road, sailed by indifferent to the shouts of the passengers to stop. "They stick by each other—the villains," was the comment.
 
Someone pulled the bell violently. That brought the driver round to the door. "Who's conductor of this bus?" he said, and paused for a reply. None coming, he returned to his seat and resumed beating his arms across his chest. There was no hope in that quarter. A policeman strolled up and looked in at the door. An of indignant protests and appeals burst on him. "Well, he's got his rules, you know," he said . "Give your name and address." &q............