from the ball players in the upper berths. Following
that came low, excited conversation between the porter and somebody,
then an angry snort from the Rube and the thud of his heavy feet in the
aisle. What took place after that was guess-work for me. But I
gathered from the roars and bawls that the Rube was after some of the
boys. I poked my head between the curtains and saw him digging into
the berths.

"Where's McCall?" he yelled.

Mac was nowhere in that sleeper, judging from the vehement denials.
But the Rube kept on digging and prodding in the upper berths.

"I'm a-goin' to lick you, Mac, so I reckon you'd better show up,"
shouted the Rube.

The big fellow was mad as a hornet. When he got to me he grasped me
with his great fence-rail splitting hands and I cried out with pain.

"Say! Whit, let up! Mac's not here.... What's wrong?"

"I'll show you when I find him." And the Rube stalked on down the
aisle, a tragically comic figure in his pajamas. In his search for Mac
he pried into several upper berths that contained occupants who were
not ball players, and these protested in affright. Then the Rube began
to investigate the lower berths. A row of heads protruded in a bobbing
line from between the curtains of the upper berths.

"Here, you Indian! Don't you look in there! That's my wife's berth!"
yelled Stringer.

Bogart, too, evinced great excitement.

"Hurtle, keep out of lower eight or I'll kill you," he shouted.

What the Rube might have done there was no telling, but as he grasped a
curtain, he was interrupted by a shriek from some woman assuredly not
of our party.

"Get out! you horrid wretch! Help! Porter! Help! Conductor!"

Instantly there was a deafening tumult in the car. When it had
subsided somewhat, and I considered I would be safe, I descended from
my berth and made my way to the dressing room. Sprawled over the
leather seat was the Rube pommelling McCall with hearty good will. I
would have interfered, had it not been for Mac's demeanor. He was half
frightened, half angry, and utterly unable to defend himself or even
resist, because he was laughing, too.

"Dog-gone it! Whit--I didn't--do it! I swear it was Spears! Stop
thumpin' me now--or I'll get sore.... You hear me! It wasn't me, I
tell you. Cheese it!"

For all his protesting Mac received a good thumping, and I doubted not
in the least that he deserved it. The wonder of the affair, however,
was the fact that no