“They’re not mine, any of them,” I snarled. “They are some other fellow’s. I’ll sit here until I take root before I put them on.”
“They’re nice lookin’ clothes,” the porter put in, eying the red tie with appreciation. “Ain’t everybody would have left you anything.”
“Call the conductor,” I said shortly. Then a possible explanation occurred to me. “Oh, porter—what’s the number of this berth?”
“Seven, sir. If you cain’t wear those shoes—”
“Seven!” In my relief I almost shouted it. “Why, then, it’s simple enough. I’m in the wrong berth, that’s all. My berth is nine. Only—where the deuce is the man who belongs here?”
“Likely in nine, sir.” The darky was enjoying himself. “You and the other gentleman just got mixed in the night. That’s all, sir.” It was clear that he thought I had been drinking.
I drew a long breath. Of course, that was the explanation. This was number seven’s berth, that was his soft hat, this his umbrella, his coat, his bag. My rage turned to irritation at myself.
The porter went to the next berth and I could hear his softly insinuating voice. “Time to get up, sir. Are you awake? Time to get up.”
There was no response from number nine. I guessed that he had opened the curtains and was looking in. Then he came back.
“Number nine’s empty,” he said.