The Man in Lower Ten | Page 6

berth after waiting in a line of some eight or ten people.
When, step by step, I had almost reached the window, a tall woman
whom I had not noticed before spoke to me from my elbow. She had a
ticket and money in her hand.
"Will you try to get me a lower when you buy yours?" she asked. "I
have traveled for three nights in uppers."
I consented, of course; beyond that I hardly noticed the woman. I had a
vague impression of height and a certain amount of stateliness, but the
crowd was pushing behind me, and some one was standing on my foot.
I got two lowers easily, and, turning with the change and berths, held
out the tickets.
"Which will you have?" I asked. "Lower eleven or lower ten?"
"It makes no difference," she said. "Thank you very much indeed."
At random I gave her lower eleven, and called a porter to help her with
her luggage. I followed them leisurely to the train shed, and ten minutes
more saw us under way.
I looked into my car, but it presented the peculiarly unattractive
appearance common to sleepers. The berths were made up; the center
aisle was a path between walls of dingy, breeze-repelling curtains,
while the two seats at each end of the car were piled high with suitcases
and umbrellas. The perspiring porter was trying to be six places at once:
somebody has said that Pullman porters are black so they won't show
the dirt, but they certainly show the heat.
Nine-fifteen was an outrageous hour to go to bed, especially since I
sleep little or not at all on the train, so I made my way to the smoker
and passed the time until nearly eleven with cigarettes and a magazine.
The car was very close. It was a warm night, and before turning in I
stood a short time in the vestibule. The train had been stopping at
frequent intervals, and, finding the brakeman there, I asked the trouble.
It seemed that there was a hot-box on the next car, and that not only

were we late, but we were delaying the second section, just behind. I
was beginning to feel pleasantly drowsy, and the air was growing
cooler as we got into the mountains. I said good night to the brakeman
and went back to my berth. To my surprise, lower ten was already
occupied - a suit-case projected from beneath, a pair of shoes stood on
the floor, and from behind the curtains came the heavy, unmistakable
breathing of deep sleep. I hunted out the porter and together we
investigated.
"Are you asleep, sir?" asked the porter, leaning over deferentially. No
answer forthcoming, he opened the curtains and looked in. Yes, the
intruder was asleep - very much asleep - and an overwhelming odor of
whisky proclaimed that he would probably remain asleep until morning.
I was irritated. The car was full, and I was not disposed to take an upper
in order to allow this drunken interloper to sleep comfortably in my
berth.
"You'll have to get out of this," I said, shaking him angrily. But he
merely grunted and turned over. As he did so, I saw his features for the
first time. It was the quarrelsome man of the restaurant.
I was less disposed than ever to relinquish my claim, but the porter,
after a little quiet investigation, offered a solution of the difficulty.
"There's no one in lower nine," he suggested, pulling open the curtains
just across. "It's likely nine's his berth, and he's made a mistake, owing
to his condition. You'd better take nine, sir."
I did, with a firm resolution that if nine's rightful owner turned up later
I should be just as unwakable as the man opposite. I undressed leisurely,
making sure of the safety of the forged notes, and placing my grip as
before between myself and the window.
Being a man of systematic habits, I arranged my clothes carefully,
putting my shoes out for the porter to polish, and stowing my collar and
scarf in the little hammock swung for the purpose.
At last, with my pillows so arranged that I could see out comfortably,
and with the unhygienic-looking blanket turned back - I have always a

distrust of those much-used affairs - I prepared to wait gradually for
sleep.
But sleep did not visit me. The train came to frequent, grating stops,
and I surmised the hot box again. I am not a nervous man, but there
was something chilling in the thought of the second section pounding
along behind us. Once, as I was dozing, our locomotive whistled a
shrill warning - "You keep back where you belong," it screamed to my
drowsy ears, and from somewhere behind came a