The car was settling gradually into peace. But there was still some murmur and drowsy energy. Shoes continued to drop, heads to bump against upper berths, the bell to ring now and then, and ring again and again.
The porter paid little heed to it; he was busy making up number five (Ira Lathrop's berth) for Marjorie, who was making what preparations she could for her trousseauless, husbandless, dogless first night out.
Finally the Englishman, who had almost rung the bell dry of electricity, shoved from his berth his indignant and undignified head. Once more the car resounded with the cry of "Pawtah! Pawtah!"
The porter moved up with noticeable deliberation. "Did you ring, sah?"
"Did I ring! Paw-tah, you may draw my tub at eight-thutty in the mawning."
"Draw yo'—what, sah?" the porter gasped.
"My tub."
"Ba-ath tub?"
"Lawdy, man. Is you allowin' to take a ba-ath in the mawnin'?"