“Did you ring, sir?” he asked, poking his head through the curtains obsequiously.  McKnight objects that nobody can poke his head through a curtain and be obsequious.  But Pullman porters can and do.

“No,” I snapped.  “It rang itself.  What in thunder do you mean by exchanging my valise for this one?  You’ll have to find it if you waken the entire car to do it.  There are important papers in that grip.”

“Porter,” called a feminine voice from an upper berth near-by.  “Porter, am I to dangle here all day?”

“Let her dangle,” I said savagely.  “You find that bag of mine.”

The porter frowned.  Then he looked at me with injured dignity.  “I brought in your overcoat, sir.  You carried your own valise.”

The fellow was right!  In an excess of caution I had refused to relinquish my alligator bag, and had turned over my other traps to the porter.  It was clear enough then.  I was simply a victim of the usual sleeping-car robbery.  I was in a lather of perspiration by that time:  the lady down the car was still dangling and talking about it:  still nearer a feminine voice was giving quick orders in French, presumably to a maid.  The porter was on his knees, looking under the berth.

“Not there, sir,” he said, dusting his knees.  He was visibly more cheerful, having been absolved of responsibility.  “Reckon it was taken while you was wanderin’ around the car last night.”

“I’ll give you fifty dollars if you find it,” I said.  “A hundred.  Reach up my shoes and I’ll—­”

I stopped abruptly.  My eyes were fixed in stupefied amazement on a coat that hung from a hook at the foot of my berth.  From the coat they traveled, dazed, to the soft-bosomed shirt beside it, and from there to the collar and cravat in the net hammock across the windows.

“A hundred!” the porter repeated, showing his teeth.  But I caught him by the arm and pointed to the foot of the berth.

“What—­what color’s that coat?” I asked unsteadily.

“Gray, sir.”  His tone was one of gentle reproof.

“And—­the trousers?”

He reached over and held up one creased leg.  “Gray, too,” he grinned.

“Gray!” I could not believe even his corroboration of my own eyes.  “But my clothes were blue!” The porter was amused:  he dived under the curtains and brought up a pair of shoes.  “Your shoes, sir,” he said with a flourish.  “Reckon you’ve been dreaming, sir.”

Now, there are two things I always avoid in my dress—­possibly an idiosyncrasy of my bachelor existence.  These tabooed articles are red neckties and tan shoes.  And not only were the shoes the porter lifted from the floor of a gorgeous shade of yellow, but the scarf which was run through the turned over collar was a gaudy red.  It took a full minute for the real import of things to penetrate my dazed intelligence.  Then I gave a vindictive kick at the offending ensemble.