After the last setting the waiters sat down to eat their dinner. Two Pullman Porters came in with their coffee cans, begging for handouts. They were very greedy and, if given one can of free coffee, would continue to come back for more during the length of the trip, as if the first can had entitled them to all that they could drink. They sat down at the waiters’ table and watched the waiters eat. The waiters were very greedy too. They ate ravenously. The porters watched the waiters for a while, then one of them closed his eyes and began to doze. The other one, an old fellow with aged and tired eyes like an owl’s, looked out at the floating gold of the sunset across the passing wheatfields. He watched until the fields became patterns of black and fading gold. Then he turned to the waiters.

“We got a old Southern gal back there,” he said.

“We had her up here,” one of the waiters said between huge mouthfuls of beef. “She got good service but she didn’t leave no tip.”

“She had me polishin’ her shoes,” the porter said, “but I don’t reckon she’ll pay off when she gets off. I didn’t put much work out on it anyway.” He stretched his thin legs under the table. They cracked with the sound of dead autumn branches underfoot.

A woman in pants passed through the car. Her hair was cut somewhat like a little girl’s Dutch Boy and a ringlet of it curled against her cheek. She blew at it out of the corner of her mouth and smiled knowingly at the men seated around the table. “Which way to the club car?” she asked. Her lipstick was above the line of her mouth so that it looked like a red moustache. She was not at all pretty and not at all young.

“Two cars ahead,” one waiter said.

She turned to go, took a few steps and then looked back at the men. The two waiters were looking her over, one porter was still dozing, and the other, the tired one, was seemingly not aware of her.

“How late does it stay open?”

“Till twelve,” the same waiter said.

“Chicago time,” the other waiter added.

They watched her move through the door.

“She’ll tip big tomorrow,” one of them said.

“Yeah.”

“That old biddy knows where the club car is. She been in there all day. I seen her battin’ them greasy eyes at John Perry on the bar.”

“Maybe he’ll take care of business for her tonight,” the tired Pullman Porter said. But there was no humor in it, and all of their laughs were only polite.

“If he does she’ll tip big tomorrow,” one of the waiters said again.