``Say! Whit, let up! Mac's not here. . . .
What's wrong?''
``I'll show you when I find him.'' And the
Rube stalked on down the aisle, a tragically comic
figure in his pajamas. In his search for Mac he
pried into several upper berths that contained
occupants who were not ball players, and these
protested in affright. Then the Rube began to
investigate the lower berths. A row of heads
protruded in a bobbing line from between the
curtains of the upper berths.
``Here, you Indian! Don't you look in there!
That's my wife's berth!'' yelled Stringer.
Bogart, too, evinced great excitement.
``Hurtle, keep out of lower eight or I'll kill
you,'' he shouted.
What the Rube might have done there was no
telling, but as he grasped a curtain, he was
interrupted by a shriek from some woman assuredly
not of our party.
``Get out! you horrid wretch! Help! Porter!
Help! Conductor!''
Instantly there was a deafening tumult in the
car. When it had subsided somewhat, and I considered
I would be safe, I descended from my
berth and made my way to the dressing room.
Sprawled over the leather seat was the Rube
pommelling McCall with hearty good will. I would
have interfered, had it not been for Mac's
demeanor. He was half frightened, half angry, and
utterly unable to defend himself or even resist,
because he was laughing, too.
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