imperfect; you may be a bearded lady.

THE CALIFORNIAN. You never mind about my looks. The question is, Do you
want your head rapped up against the side of this car?

THE UPPER BERTH. With all the frankness of your own Pacific slope, no.

MRS. ROBERTS (hastily reappearing). Oh, no, no, don't hurt him. He's
not to blame. I was wrong to keep on talking. Oh, please don't hurt
him!

THE CALIFORNIAN (to THE UPPER BERTH). You hear? Well, now, don't you
speak another word to that lady tonight. Just go on, ma'am, and free
your mind on any little matter you like. I don't want any sleep. How
long has your brother been in California?

MRS. ROBERTS. Oh, don't let's talk about it now; I don't want to talk
about it. I thought--I thought--Good-night. Oh, dear! I didn't suppose
I was making so much trouble. I didn't mean to disturb anybody. I--

[MRS. ROBERTS gives way to the excess of her confusion and mortification
in a little sob, and then hides her grief behind the curtains of her
berth. THE CALIFORNIAN slowly emerges again from his couch, and stands
beside it, looking in upon the man in the berth above.]

THE CALIFORNIAN. For half a cent I _would_ rap your head up against that
wall. Making the lady cry, and getting me so mad I can't sleep! Now see
here, you just apologize. You beg that lady's pardon, or I'll have you
out of there before you know yourself. [Cries of "Good!" "That's right!"
and "Make him show himself!" hail MRS. ROBERTS'S champion, and heads,