The Porter, Ernest Hemingway

“The Porter” is a scene from the same unfinished and untitled novel as “A Train Trip.”

The Porter

WHEN WE WENT TO BED MY FATHER said I might as well sleep in the lower berth because I would want to look out the window early in the morning. He said an upper berth did not make any difference to him and he would come to bed after a while. I undressed and put my clothes in the hammock and put on pajamas and got into bed. I turned off the light and pulled up the window curtain but it was cold if I sat up to look out and lying down in bed I could not see anything. My father took a suitcase out from under my berth, opened it on the bed, took out his pajamas and tossed them up to the upper berth, then he took a book out and the bottle and filled his flask.

“Turn on the light,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I don’t need it. Are you sleepy, Jim?”
“I guess so.”
“Get a good sleep,” he said and closed the suitcase and put it back under the berth.
“Did you put your shoes out?”

“No,” I said. They were in the hammock and I got up to get them but he found them and put them out in the aisle. He shut the curtain.
“Aren’t you going to bed, sir?” the porter asked him.
“No,” my father said. “I’m going to read a while up in the washroom.”

“Yes, sir,” the porter said. It was fine lying between the sheets with the thick blanket pulled up and it all dark and the country dark outside. There was a screen across the lower part of the window that was open and the air came in cold. The green curtain was buttoned tight and the car swayed but felt very solid and was going fast and once in a while you would hear the whistle. I went to sleep and when I woke up I looked out and we were going very slowly and crossing a big river. There were lights shining on the water and the iron framework of a bridge going by the window and my father was getting into the upper berth.

“Are you awake, Jimmy?”
“Yes. Where are we?”
“We’re crossing into Canada now,” he said. “But in the morning we’ll be out of it.”
I looked out of the window to see Canada but all I could see were railway yards and freight cars. We stopped and two men came by with torches and stopped and hit on the wheels with hammers. I could not see anything but the men crouching over by the wheels and opposite us freight cars and I crawled down in bed again.

“Where are we in Canada?” I asked.
“Windsor,” my father said. “Good night, Jim.”

When I woke up in the morning and looked out we were going through fine country that looked like Michigan only with higher hills and the trees were all turning. I got dressed in all but my shoes and reached under the curtain for them. They were shined and I put them on and unbuttoned the curtain and went out in the aisle. The curtains were buttoned all down the aisle and everybody seemed to be still asleep. I went down to the washroom and looked in.

The nigger porter was asleep in one corner of the leather cushioned seat. His cap was down over his eyes and his feet were up on one of the chairs. His mouth was open, his head was tipped back and his hands were together in his lap. I went on to the end of the car and looked out but it was drafty and cindery and there was no place to sit down. I went back to the washroom and went in very carefully so as not to wake the porter and sat down by the window. The washroom smelt like brass spittoons in the early morning. I was hungry and I looked out of the window at the fall country and watched the porter asleep. It looked like good shooting country.

There was lots of brush on the hills and patches of woods and fine looking farms and good roads. It was a different kind of looking country than Michigan. Going through it it all seemed to be connected and in Michigan one part of the country hasn’t any connection with another. There weren’t any swamps either and none of it looked burnt over. It all looked as though it belonged to somebody but it was nice looking country and the beeches and the maples were turned and there were lots of scrub oaks that had fine colored leaves too and when there was brush there was lots of sumac that was bright red. It looked like good country for rabbits and I tried to see some game but it went by too fast to concentrate looking and the only birds you could see were birds flying. I saw a hawk hunting over a field and his mate too. I saw flickers flying in the edge of the woods and I figured they were going south.

I saw bluejays twice but the train was no good for seeing birds. It slid the country all sideways if you looked straight at anything and you had to just let it go by, looking ahead a little all the time. We passed a farm with a long meadow and I saw a flock of killdeer plover feeding. Three of them flew up when the train went by and circled off over the woods but the rest kept on feeding. We made a big curve so I could see the other cars curved ahead and the engine with the drive wheels going very fast away up ahead and a river valley down below us and then I looked around and the porter was awake and looking at me.

“What do you see?” he said.
“Not much.”
“You certainly do look at it.”
I did not say anything but I was glad he was awake. He kept his feet up on the chair but reached up and put his cap straight.
“That your father that stayed up here reading?”
“Yes.”

“He certainly can drink liquor.”
“He’s a great drinker.”
“He certainly is a great drinker. That’s it, a great drinker.”
I did not say anything.
“I had a couple with him,” the porter said. “And I got plenty of effect but he sat there half the night and never showed a thing.”
“He never shows anything,” I said.

“No sir. But if he keeps up that way he’s going to kill his whole insides.”
I did not say anything.
“You hungry, boy?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m very hungry.”
“We got a diner on now. Come on back and we’ll get a little something.”

We went back through two other cars, all with the curtains closed all along the aisles, to the diner and through the tables back to the kitchen.
“Hail fellow well met,” the porter said to the chef.
“Uncle George,” the chef said. There were four other niggers sitting at a table playing cards.
“How about some food for the young gentleman and myself?”
“No sir,” said the chef. “Not until I can get it ready.”
“Could you drink?” said George.

“No sir,” said the chef.
“Here it is,” said George. He took a pint bottle out of his side pocket. “Courtesy of the young gentleman’s father.”
“He’s courteous,” said the chef. He wiped his lips.
“The young gentleman’s father is the world’s champion.”
“At what?”
“At drinking.”

“He’s mighty courteous,” said the chef. “How did you eat last night?”
“With that collection of yellow boys.”
“They all together still?”
“Between Chicago and Detroit. We call ’em the White Eskimos now.”
“Well,” said the chef. “Everything’s got its place.” He broke two eggs on the side of a frying pan. “Ham and eggs for the son of the champion?”
“Thanks,” I said.

“How about some of that courtesy?”
“Yes sir.”
“May your father remain undefeated,” the chef said to me. He licked his lips. “Does the young gentleman drink too?”
“No sir,” said George. “He’s in my charge.”
The chef put the ham and eggs on two plates.
“Seat yourselves, gentlemen.”

George and I sat down and he brought us two cups of coffee and sat down opposite us.
“You willing to part with another example of that courtesy?”
“For the best,” said George. “We got to get back to the car. How is the railroad business?”
“Rails are firm,” said the chef. “How’s Wall Street?”

“The bears are bulling again,” said George. “A lady bear ain’t safe today.”
“Bet on the Cubs,” said the chef. “The Giants are too big for the league.”
George laughed and the chef laughed.

“You’re a very courteous fellow,” George said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Run along,” said the chef. “Lackawannius is calling you.”
“I love that girl,” said George. “Who touches a hair—”
“Run along,” said the chef. “Or those yellow boys will get you.”
“It’s a pleasure, sir,” said George. “It’s a very real pleasure.”
“Run along.”

“Just one more courteous action.”
The chef wiped his lips. “God speed the parting guest,” he said.
“I’ll be in for breakfast,” George said.
“Take your unearned increment,” the chef said. George put the bottle in his pocket.
“Good-bye to a noble soul,” he said.

“Get the hell out of here,” said one of the niggers who was playing cards.
“Good-bye, gentlemen all,” George said.
“Good night, sir,” said the chef. We went out.
We went back up to our car and George looked at the number board. There was a number twelve and a number five showing. George pulled a little thing down and the numbers disappeared.
“You better sit here and be comfortable,” he said.

I sat down in the washroom and waited and he went down the aisle. In a little while he came back.
“They’re all happy now,” he