"This looks pretty good to me," said Phil, peering out through the screened window of his berth.
"Reminds me of when I used to go to sleep in the woodbox behind the stove where I lived last year in Edmeston," grumbled Teddy in a muffled voice, as he rummaged about his berth trying to accustom himself to it. Teddy never had ridden in a sleeping car, so it was all new and strange to him.
"Say, who sleeps upstairs?" he called to the porter.
"The performers, sah—some of them. This heah is the performers' car, sah."
"How do they get up there? On a rope ladder?"
Phil shouted.
"You ninny, this isn't a circus performance. No; of course they don't climb up on a rope ladder as if they were starting a trapeze act."
"How, then?"
"The porter brings out a little step ladder, and it's just like walking upstairs, only it isn't."
"Huh!" grunted Teddy. "Do they have a net under them all night?"