d till we get to Boston, and surprise your wife by telling her what you
tried to do.

MR. ROBERTS (unable to resent the patronage of this suggestion). Well, I
don't know but I will.

THE CONDUCTOR (going out). The porter will make up the berth for you.

MR. ROBERTS (to THE PORTER, who is about to pull down the upper berth
over a vacant seat). Ah! Er--I--I don't think I'll trouble you to make
it up; it's so near morning now. Just bring me a pillow, and I'll try to
get a nap without lying down.

[He takes the vacant seat.]

THE PORTER. All right, sah.

[He goes to the end of the car and returns with a pillow.]

MR. ROBERTS. Ah--porter!

THE PORTER. Yes, sah.

MR. ROBERTS. Of course you didn't notice; but you don't think you _did_
notice who was in that berth yonder?

[He indicates a certain berth.]

THE PORTER. Dat's a gen'leman in dat berth, I think, sah.

MR. ROBERTS (astutely). There's a bonnet hanging from the hook at the
top. I'm not sure, but it looks like my wife's bonnet.

THE PORTER (evidently shaken by this reasoning, but recovering his
firmness). Yes, sah. But you can't depend upon de ladies to hang deir
bonnets on de right hook. Jes' likely as not dat lady's took de hook at
de foot of her berth instead o' de head. Sometimes dey takes both.

MR. ROBERTS. Ah! [After a pause.] Porter!

THE PORTER. Yes, sah.

MR. ROBERTS. You wouldn't feel justified in looking?

THE PORTER. I couldn't, sah; I couldn't, indeed.

MR. ROBERTS (reaching his left hand toward THE PORTER'S, and pressing a
half dollar into his instantly responsive palm). But there's nothing to
prevent _my_ looking if I feel perfectly sure of the bonnet?

THE PORTER. N-no, sah.

MR. ROBERTS. All right.

[THE PORTER retires to the end of the car, and resumes the work of
polishing the passengers' boots. After an interval of quiet, MR. ROBERTS
rises, and, looking about him with what he feels to be melodramatic
stealth, approaches the suspected berth. He unloops the curtain with a
trembling hand, and peers ineffectually in; he advances his head further
and further into the darkened recess, and then suddenly dodges back
again, with THE CALIFORNIAN hanging to his neckcloth with one hand.]

THE CALIFORNIAN (savagely). What do you want?

MR. ROBERTS (struggling and breathless). I--I--I want my wife.

THE CALIFORNIAN. Want your wife! Have _I_ got your wife?

MR. ROBERTS. No--ah--that is--ah, excuse me--