The needle pointing to an arc of embossed bronze gradations on the dial responded to a lever the motorman tapped with his open palm in order to start moving or gain speed, returning to its initial position and thus cutting the current when approaching a stop, then rapidly and strenuously turning a cast-iron wheel to his right (a smaller version of the kind which used to work well-pumps in old-time kitchens) in order to activate the screeching brakes. The handle of the lever which the motorman pushed as he stood in front of the oval column on which this rudimentary instrument-panel was set retained only a faint brown trace of its original varnish, the unprotected wood beneath now grayish and probably grimy.
To ride in the motorman's cab (which in any case you had to step through in order to enter the tram proper) instead of taking a seat on the benches inside constituted something of a privilege not only to my child's mind but also, quite plainly, to those of the two or three passengers who, similarly scorning the benches, would stand as a rule in the cab, probably not imbued like me with the importance of their position . . . .