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Haze with his eyes thin, "I'm from Chicago. My father was a railroad man," and Haze stared at him and then laughed: a nigger being a railroad "man": and laughed again, and the porter jerked the ladder off suddenly with a wrench of his arm that sent Haze clutching at the blanket into the berth.
He lay on his stomach in the berth, trembling from the way he had got in. Cash's son. From Eastrod. But not wanting Eastrod; hating it. He lay there for a while on his stomach, not moving. It seemed a year since he had fallen over the porter in the aisle.
After a while he remembered that he was actually in the berth and he turned and found the light and looked around him. There was no window.
The side wall did not have a window in it. It didn't push up to be a window. There was no window concealed in it. There was a fish net thing stretched across the sidewall; but no windows. For a second it flashed through his mind that the porter had done this--given him this berth that there were no windows to and had just a fish net strung the length of--because he hated him. But they must all be like this.
The top of the berth was low and curved over. He lay down. The curved top looked like it was not quite closed; it looked like it was closing. He lay there for a
