patrons of his car. It was passing attention at the best; for after a
time the little bell annunciator began to sing merrily and persistently
at him--and invariably its commanding needle pointed to D.R. And on the
drawing-room Whittlesey Warren danced a constant attention.

"Here, you nigger!" X shouted at the first response. "How many times
have I got to tell all of you to put the head of my bed toward the
engine?"

Whittlesey Warren looked at the bed. He knew the make-up of the train.
The code had been met. The banker's pillows were toward the locomotive.
But his job was not to argue and dispute. He merely said:

"Yas-suh. Scuse me!" And he remade the bed while X lit a stogy and went
back to the smoker.

That was at Erie--Erie, and the snow was falling more briskly than at
Cleveland. Slowing into Dunkirk, the banker returned and glanced through
the car window. He could see by the snow against the street lamps that
the train was apparently running in the opposite direction. His chubby
finger went against the push button. Whittlesey Warren appeared at the
door. The language that followed cannot be reproduced in THE SATURDAY
EVENING POST. Suffice it to say that the porter remembered who he was
and what he was, and merely remade the bed.

The banker bit off the end of another cigar and retired once again to
the club car. When he returned, the train was backing into the Buffalo
station. At that unfortunate moment he raised his car shade--and Porter
Whittlesey Warren again reversed the bed, to the accompaniment of the
most violent abuse that had ever been heaped on his defenseless head.