kept my eyes shut for just a second longer, and then I opened them and saw, by the dim light, that there wasn't any wreck. But the weight was still on my chest, and my arms were pinioned, and the man in the berth below was asking questions of his wife. I couldn't hear what he said, but I could tell that it was questions,—and that he seemed to think it was her fault.
"I knew what was the matter, now;—that my type-writer had tumbled off, and was holding me down, with the blanket stretched across me. I could breathe fairly, up high, when I got used to it, but I couldn't move a thing except my feet. I lay still and tried to decide what to do. The man kept on asking questions, and then he decided to find out what was the trouble. The road was pretty rough along there, and I guess he sat up, but couldn't see what was the matter; for the case was hanging outside of the little curtain that drops from the bottom of the upper berth. I could just about tell what was going on, by the sound. He went to put his head out, to see what was doing, and just then the train went around a curve, and the case must have swung in real hard, exactly at the wrong time. It was a little higher up than
