“Yes ma’am.” He did not stop his work; nor did he look at her, but answered her questions and made the bed with the proficiency and cool detachment of one used to confronting stupidity in the intelligent. It was bargained and paid for in the price of her ticket and his was a patient and polite endurance of her right to be stupid. “I’m a Pullman Porter,” he said. “I been a Pullman Porter for forty-three years.” He had finished the bed and he smoothed down a light ripple in the red blanket. His hands were rough and wrinkled and the backs of his fingers were very black. “Forty-three years,” he repeated reminiscently, half to himself. She could not see his eyes.

“Well, you can’t stay in here tonight,” she said, and moved into the small compartment as if to possess it entirely with her presence.

The porter backed out. “It’s my job,” he said.

She was extremely nervous now and ran her hands lightly over the sides of her dress. Her hands stuck to the thin silk. “You go get the Pullman Conductor,” she said. “I can talk to him.” She began to pace up and down the little length of the roomette.

The porter returned in a few minutes with the Pullman Conductor. The blue-suited conductor entered the compartment while the porter stood outside the door and watched them, his dark old eyes flashing from one face to the other.

“He sits up in the car, lady,” the conductor said. “It’s his job. He has to be here if anyone rings for him at night.” The conductor was very irritated. He had already started to undress for bed and his tie hung loosely about his neck. The lady was perspiring now and the little beads of sweat glistened on her temples in the glare of the white light overhead.

“I can’t and I won’t sleep in the same car with that . . . that gentleman!”

“That’s your business if you don’t sleep, lady,” the conductor said. “He stays in the car.” The conductor was very mad now. The lines in his forehead grew very red and his nose, which was small, grew larger and redder with his controlled breathing.

“We have a right to sleep here without these people coming in doing things.”

“What’s he done to you, lady?”

“He’s black! He’s black!” And she said it with the exasperation and utter defeat of an inexperienced teacher whose patience has been exhausted and who can only stamp the right answer into the mind of a stupid child.

“He’s a porter,” the conductor said.