"Go away and leave me. I hate you!"
Mallory rose up, and stumbling down the aisle, plounced into berth number three, an allegory of despair.
About this time, Little Jimmie Wellington, having completed more or less chaotic preparations for sleep, found that he had put on his pyjamas hindside foremost. After vain efforts to whirl round quickly and get at his own back, he put out a frowsy head, and called for help.
"I'm still on the train," answered the porter, coming into view.
"You'll have to hook me up."
The porter rendered what aid and correction he could in Wellington's hippopotamine toilet. Wellington was just wide enough awake to discern the undisturbed bridal-chamber. He whined:
"Say, Porter, that rice-trap. Aren't they going to flop the rice-trap?"
The porter shook his head sadly. "Don't look like that floppers a'goin' to flip. That dog-on bridal couple is done divorced a'ready!"