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.