le hammock swung for the purpose.

At last, with my pillows so arranged that I could see out comfortably,
and with the unhygienic-looking blanket turned back--I have always a
distrust of those much-used affairs--I prepared to wait gradually for
sleep.

But sleep did not visit me. The train came to frequent, grating stops,
and I surmised the hot box again. I am not a nervous man, but there was
something chilling in the thought of the second section pounding along
behind us. Once, as I was dozing, our locomotive whistled a shrill
warning--"You keep back where you belong," it screamed to my drowsy
ears, and from somewhere behind came a chastened "All-right-I-will."

I grew more and more wide-awake. At Cresson I got up on my elbow and
blinked out at the station lights. Some passengers boarded the train
there and I heard a woman's low tones, a southern voice, rich and
full. Then quiet again. Every nerve was tense: time passed, perhaps ten
minutes, possibly half an hour. Then, without the slightest warning, as
the train rounded a curve, a heavy body was thrown into my berth. The
incident, trivial as it seemed, was startling in its suddenness, for
although my ears were painfully strained and awake, I had heard no step
outside. The next instant the curtain hung limp again; still without a
sound, my disturber had slipped away into the gloom and darkness. In a
frenzy of wakefulness, I sat up, drew on a pair of slippers and fumbled
for my bath-robe.

From a berth across, probably lower ten, came that particular
aggravating snore which begins lightly, delicately, faintly soprano,
goes down the scale a note with every breath, and, after keeping the
listener tense with expectation, ends with an explosion that tears the
very air. I was more and more irritable: I sat on the edge of the berth
and hoped the snorer would choke to death. He had considerable vitality,
however; he withstood one shock after another and survived to start
again with new vigor. In desperation I found some cigarettes and one
match, piled my blankets over my grip, and drawing the curtains together
as though the berth were still occupied, I made my way to the vestibule
of the car.

I was not clad for dress parade. Is it because the male is so restricted
to gloom in his every-day attire that he blossoms into gaudy colors in
his pajamas and dressing-gowns? It would take a Turk to feel at
home before an audience in my red and yellow bathrobe, a Christmas
remembr