"Here—wait—how dare you! And that berth is made up. I don't want to go to bed now!"
"Mista Ticket says, 'Go to baid!'"
"Of all the disgusting countries! Heah, don't put that thah—heah."
The porter flung his load anywhere, and absolved himself with a curt, "I's got otha passengers to wait on now."
"I shall certainly report you to the company," the Englishman fumed.
"Yassah, I p'sume so."
"Have I got to go to bed now? Really, I——" but the porter was gone, and the irate foreigner crawled under his curtains, muttering: "I shall write a letter to the London Times about this."
To add to his misery, Mrs. Whitcomb came from the Women's Room, and as she passed him, she prodded him with one sharp elbow and twisted the corner of her heel into his little toe. He thrust his head out with his fiercest, "How dare you!" But Mrs. Whitcomb was fresh from a prolonged encounter with Mrs. Wellington, and she flung back a venomous glare that sent the Englishman to cover.
The porter reveled in his victory till he had to dash out to the vestibule to give vent to hilarious yelps of laughter. When he had regained composure, he came back to Mallory, and bent over him to say:
"Yo' berth is empty, sah. Shall I make it up?"