The Portland porter turned to gaze.
"I got my fingers crossed."
"I hope you git him."
"I hope I don't."
"He'll work you hard and cuss you out, and he won't give you even a Much Obliged."
"That's right. He ain't got a usher to carry his things. And he's got enough to fill a van."
The oncomer was plainly of English origin. It takes all sorts of people to make up the British Empire, and there is no sort lacking—glorious or pretty, or sour or sweet. But this was the type of English globe-trotter that makes himself as unpopular among foreigners as he is among his own people. He is almost as unendurable as the Americans abroad who twang their banjo brag through Europe, and berate France and Italy for their innocence of buckwheat cakes.
The two porters regarded Mr. Harold Wedgewood with dread, as he bore down on them. He was almost lost in the plethora of his own luggage. He asked for the San Francisco sleeper, and the Portland porter had to turn away to smother his gurgling relief.
Ellsworth Jefferson's heart sank. He made a feeble effort at self-protection. The Pullman conductor not being present at the moment, he inquired:
"Have you got yo' ticket?"