"Of cawse."
"Could I see it?"
"Of cawse not. Too much trouble to fish it out."
The porter was fading. "Do you remember yo' numba?"
"Of cawse. Take these." He began to pile things on the porter like a mountain unloading an avalanche. The porter stumbled as he clambered up the steps, and squeezed through the strait path of the corridor into the slender aisle. He turned again and again to question the invader, but he was motioned and bunted down the car, till he was halted with a "This will do."
The Englishman selected section three for his own. The porter ventured: "Are you sho' this is yo' numba?"
"Of cawse I'm shaw. How dare you question my——"
"I wasn't questionin' you, boss, I was just astin' you."
He resigned himself to the despot, and began to transfer his burdens to the seat. But he did nothing to the satisfaction of the Englishman. Everything must be placed otherwise; the catch-all here, the portmanteau there, the Gladstone there, the golfsticks there, the greatcoat there, the raincoat there. The porter was puffing like a donkey-engine, and mutiny was growing in his heart. His last commission was the hanging up of the bowler hat.
He stood on the arm of the seat to reach the high hook. From here he paused to glare down with an attempt at irony.