The porter went to the next berth and I could hear his softly
insinuating voice. "Time to get up, sir. Are you awake? Time
to get up."

There was no response from number nine. I guessed that he had
opened the curtains and was looking in. Then he came back.

"Number nine's empty," he said.

"Empty! Do you mean my clothes aren't there?" I demanded. "My
valise? Why don't you answer me?"

"You doan' give me time," he retorted. "There ain't nothin' there.
But it's been slept in."

The disappointment was the greater for my few moments of hope. I
sat up in a white fury and put on the clothes that had been left me.
Then, still raging, I sat on the edge of the berth and put on the
obnoxious tan shoes. The porter, called to his duties, made little
excursions back to me, to offer assistance and to chuckle at my
discomfiture. He stood by, outwardly decorous, but with little
irritating grins of amusement around his mouth, when I finally
emerged with the red tie in my hand.

"Bet the owner of those clothes didn't become them any more than
you do," he said, as he plied the ubiquitous whisk broom.

"When I get the owner of these clothes," I retorted grimly, "he
will need a shroud. Where's the conductor?"