“They’re not mine, any of them,” I snarled.  “They are some other fellow’s.  I’ll sit here until I take root before I put them on.”

“They’re nice lookin’ clothes,” the porter put in, eying the red tie with appreciation.  “Ain’t everybody would have left you anything.”

“Call the conductor,” I said shortly.  Then a possible explanation occurred to me.  “Oh, porter—­what’s the number of this berth?”

“Seven, sir.  If you cain’t wear those shoes—­”

“Seven!” In my relief I almost shouted it.  “Why, then, it’s simple enough.  I’m in the wrong berth, that’s all.  My berth is nine.  Only—­where the deuce is the man who belongs here?”

“Likely in nine, sir.”  The darky was enjoying himself.  “You and the other gentleman just got mixed in the night.  That’s all, sir.”  It was clear that he thought I had been drinking.

I drew a long breath.  Of course, that was the explanation.  This was number seven’s berth, that was his soft hat, this his umbrella, his coat, his bag.  My rage turned to irritation at myself.

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?”

The conductor was coming, he assured me; also that there was no bag answering the description of mine on the car.  I slammed my way to the dressing-room, washed, choked my fifteen and a half neck into a fifteen collar, and was back again in less than five minutes.  The car, as well as its occupants, was gradually taking on a daylight appearance.  I hobbled in, for one of the shoes was abominably tight, and found myself facing a young woman in blue with an unforgettable face. ("Three women already.”  McKnight says:  “That’s going some, even if you don’t count the Gilmore nurse.”) She