Reaching into his pocket, Bob drew forth the long strip of paper and presented it to the officious porter.
"The ticket's all right," grunted the man. "Now, whar's youah parlah cyar ticket?"
"My what?" asked Bob.
"Youah parlah cyar ticket."
"That's all the ticket I have," returned Bob. "Isn't that enough? I told the man I wanted a chair-car ticket, and that's what he gave me."
"Huh! I thought so. This ain't no chair cyar. This is a parlah cyar. The cyar you-all want is up front, four cyars ahead. Now get out of hyar lively."
"But I can't get out while the train's going," protested Bob. "I might get hurt, and—and besides, I want to go to Chicago, and if I get off I'll lose my train."
And in Bob's voice, as he pictured himself in his mind left beside the railroad tracks in a strange place and at night, there was a plaintive appeal.
"You don't have to git off ther train," snarled the porter. "All you gotta do is to walk right fru ther other cyars, three of 'em, mind you, and you'll find your chair cyar. The idea of you-all getting into a parlah cyar with a chair-cyar ticket."
Reassured by the information that it would be unnecessary for him to leave the train in order to reach the proper car, Bob rose from the soft and luxurious seat slowly.