The Man in Lower Ten | Page 8

bits.
There were only parts of four words on the scrap, but it left me puzzled
and thoughtful. It read, "-ower ten, car seve-."
"Lower ten, car seven," was my berth-the one I had bought and found
preempted.
CHAPTER III
ACROSS THE AISLE
No solution offering itself, I went back to my berth. The snorer across
had apparently strangled, or turned over, and so after a time I dropped
asleep, to be awakened by the morning sunlight across my face.
I felt for my watch, yawning prodigiously. I reached under the pillow
and failed to find it, but something scratched the back of my hand. I sat
up irritably and nursed the wound, which was bleeding a little. Still
drowsy, I felt more cautiously for what I supposed had been my scarf
pin, but there was nothing there. Wide awake now, I reached for my
traveling-bag, on the chance that I had put my watch in there. I had
drawn the satchel to me and had my hand on the lock before I realized
that it was not my own!
Mine was of alligator hide. I had killed the beast in Florida, after the
expenditure of enough money to have bought a house and enough
energy to have built one. The bag I held in my hand was a black one,
sealskin, I think. The staggering thought of what the loss of my bag
meant to me put my finger on the bell and kept it there until the porter
came.
"Did you ring, sir?" he asked, poking his head through the curtains

obsequiously. McKnight objects that nobody can poke his head through
a curtain and be obsequious. But Pullman porters can and do.
"No," I snapped. "It rang itself. What in thunder do you mean by
exchanging my valise for this one? You'll have to find it if you waken
the entire car to do it. There are important papers in that grip."
"Porter," called a feminine voice from an upper berth near-by. "Porter,
am I to dangle here all day?"
"Let her dangle," I said savagely. "You find that bag of mine.
The porter frowned. Then he looked at me with injured dignity. "I
brought in your overcoat, sir. You carried your own valise."
The fellow was right! In an excess of caution I had refused to relinquish
my alligator bag, and had turned over my other traps to the porter. It
was clear enough then. I was simply a victim of the usual sleeping-car
robbery. I was in a lather of perspiration by that time: the lady down
the car was still dangling and talking about it: still nearer a feminine
voice was giving quick orders in French, presumably to a maid. The
porter was on his knees, looking under the berth.
"Not there, sir," he said, dusting his knees. He was visibly more
cheerful, having been absolved of responsibility. "Reckon it was taken
while you was wanderin' around the car last night."
"I'll give you fifty dollars if you find it," I said. "A hundred. Reach up
my shoes and I'll - "
I stopped abruptly. My eyes were fixed in stupefied amazement on a
coat that hung from a hook at the foot of my berth. From the coat they
traveled, dazed, to the soft-bosomed shirt beside it, and from there to
the collar and cravat in the net hammock across the windows.
"A hundred!" the porter repeated, showing his teeth. But I caught him
by the arm and pointed to the foot of the berth.

"What - what color's that coat?" I asked unsteadily.
"Gray, sir." His tone was one of gentle reproof.
"And - the trousers?"
He reached over and held up one creased leg. "Gray, too," he grinned.
"Gray!" I could not believe even his corroboration of my own eyes.
"But my clothes were blue!" The porter was amused: he dived under
the curtains and brought up a pair of shoes. "Your shoes, sir," he said
with a flourish. "Reckon you've been dreaming, sir.
Now, there are two things I always avoid in my dress - possibly an
idiosyncrasy of my bachelor existence. These tabooed articles are red
neckties and tan shoes. And not only were the shoes the porter lifted
from the floor of a gorgeous shade of yellow, but the scarf which was
run through the turned over collar was a gaudy red. It took a full minute
for the real import of things to penetrate my dazed intelligence. Then I
gave a vindictive kick at the offending ensemble.
"They're not mine, any of them," I snarled. "They are some other
fellow's. I'll sit here until I take root before I put them on."
"They're nice lookin' clothes," the porter put in, eying the red tie with
appreciation. "Ain't everybody would have