The oncomer was plainly of English origin. It takes all sorts of people to make up the British Empire, and there is no sort lacking--glorious or pretty, or sour or sweet. But this was the type of English globe-trotter that makes himself as unpopular among foreigners as he is among his own people. He is almost as unendurable as the Americans abroad who twang their banjo brag through Europe, and berate France and Italy for their innocence of buckwheat cakes. The two porters regarded Mr. Harold Wedgewood with dread, as he bore down on them. He was almost lost in the plethora of his own luggage. He asked for the San Francisco sleeper, and the Portland porter had to turn away to smother his gurgling relief. Ellsworth Jefferson's heart sank. He made a feeble effort at self-protection. The Pullman conductor not being present at the moment, he inquired: "Have you got yo' ticket?" "Of cawse." "Could I see it?" "Of cawse not. Too much trouble to fish it out." The porter was fading. "Do you remember yo' numba?" "Of cawse. Take these." He began to pile things on the porter like a mountain unloading an avalanche. The porter stumbled as he clambered up the steps, and squeezed through the strait path of the corridor into the slender aisle. He turned again and again to question the invader, but he was motioned and bunted down the car, till he was halted with a "This will do." The Englishman selected section three for his own. The porter ventured: "Are you sho' this is yo' numba?" "Of cawse I'm shaw. How dare you question my----" "I wasn't questionin' you, boss, I was just astin' you." He resigned himself to the despot, and began to transfer his burdens to the seat. But he did nothing to the satisfaction of the Englishman. Everything must be placed otherwise; the catch-all here, the portmanteau there, the Gladstone there, the golfsticks there, the greatcoat there, the raincoat there. The porter was puffing like a donkey-engine, and mutiny was growing in his heart. His last commission was the hanging up of the bowler hat. He stood on the arm of the seat to reach the high hook. From here he paused to glare down with an attempt at irony. "Is they anything else?" "No. You may get down." The magnificent patronage of this wilted the porter completely. He returned to the lower level, and shuffled along the aisle in a trance. He was quickly recalled by a sharp: "Pawtah!" "Yassah!" "What time does this bally train start?" "Ten-thutty, sah." "But it's only ten now." "Yassah. It'll be ten-thutty a little later." "Do you mean to tell me that I've got to sit hyah for half an hour--just waitin'?" The porter essayed another bit of irony: "Well," he drawled, "I might tell the conducta you're ready. And mebbe he'd start the train. But the time-table says ten-thutty." He watched the effect of his satire, but it fell back unheeded from the granite dome of the Englishman, whose only comment was: "Oh, never mind. I'll wait."