A lady in an upper berth wanted a stepladder. The porter was working like mad making up berths so as to brush his passengers and receive the offertory before they got to Des Moines. A party wearing a long raincoat and a big, light-colored Roycroft Stetson emerged cautiously from a berth, and hurried toward the ladies’ dressing-room ❦ “Hi, Kuhnel, t’other end of the kyar, if you don’ min’, please,” called the porter ❦ The berths were all made up. The porter had brushed everybody except the party wearing the big Stetson, drawn low, who occupied Number Nine. The porter had now concluded that the unpleasantness of the early morning was the result of a hoodoo—the failure to carry his rabbit’s foot. It was all a bad dream! “Brush!” he said, with a flourish, approaching the party in the long raincoat. The Stetson shook, and two sad, gray eyes looked straight at the colored brother ❦ He fled in dismay. George was out a quarter that he had counted on. The drummer from Syracuse, wearing his ulster buttoned to the chin, helped the soft-hatted party out of the car, through the station into the Hotel Savery bus. “I’ll send your clothes back as soon as I can buy more,” said the lady in her low, musical voice ❦ “Oh, don’t bother!” said Dionysius of Syracuse, blushing brick-dust. ¶ The drummer forgot to give her his address, and to take hers. He felt sort of guilty, being a respectable married man, and from Syracuse, as before stated. He did not go to the Hotel Savery, as usual. ¶ He bought a pair of shoes, a smart Stein-Bloch Company suit, saw his trade, and left for Omaha on the Two-ten. [Illustration] [Illustration] Remember the Weekday