Mr. Holiday waved the thanks aside and pointed to a door of shining mahogany.
"There's a bed for you, too," he said gently.
The convict hesitated.
Then—it may have been owing to the sudden starting of the train—he lurched against the door, and with a sound that was mighty like a sob thrust it open and slammed it shut behind him.
Mr. Holiday smiled and went back to his own bed. This time he slept soundly.
At seven o'clock the porter called him, according to orders. The train was standing still.
"Merry Christmas, Mistah Holiday, sah!" grinned the porter. "Seven o'clock, sah!"
"Merry Christmas," said Mr. Holiday. "Why are we stopping?"
"We's snowed in," grinned the porter.
"Snowed in!" exclaimed Mr. Holiday. "Where?"