"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