Pounding on the walls with hammers, chairs, and shoe-
heels was like singing a lullaby. One genius invented a species of
foghorn which proved very effective--in waking up all Empire east
of the tracks, except "the Sloth." Some took to dropping their
heavier and more dispensable possessions over the partition. One
memorable night a fellow-sufferer cast over a young dry-goods box
which, bouncing from the snorer's figure to the floor, caused him
to lose a beat--one; and the feat is still one of the proud
memories of 35. On Sundays when all the rest of the world was up
and shaved and breakfasted and off on the 8:39 of a brilliant,
sunny day to Panama, "the Sloth" would be still imperturbably
snorting and choking in the depths of his cot. And in the evening,
as the train roamed back through the fresh cool jungle dusk and
deposited us at Empire station, and we crossed the wooden bridge
before the hotel and began to climb the graveled path behind,
hoping against hope that we might find crape on that door, from
the night ahead would break on our cars a sound as of a
hippopotamus struggling wildly against going down for the third
and last time.
Most annoying of all, "the Sloth" was not even a bona fide
bachelor. He proudly announced that, though he was a model of
marital virtue, he had not lived with his wife in many years.
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