No Job for a Lady Read Online Free PDF Page B

across your face like the illumination from one of Mr. Edison’s newfangled lightbulbs.”
    There in bold print is an H on one and a W on the other.
    “ H for husband, W for wife.” He smirks. “Mexico is a very religious country. As the ticket agent says, compartment ticket holders must be husband and wife or of the same sex.”
    “I will not be bullied. I will not share this compartment with you.”
    He shakes his head and shrugs. “I don’t expect you to. Find yourself a seat on the train. Better hurry before they are all taken.”
    The train lurches forward and I grab the wall for support. We are already under way.
    “Look,” he says. “This is an awkward situation for both of us. I suggest we make the best of it. If we squabble, we will both be kicked off the train. I will pay my half of the compartment and we’ll share it. There’s room for both of us and even more privacy than there is in the corridor. And despite any judgment of my character by you, I am a gentleman.”
    He is right about more privacy, even if we share the compartment. Other than a couple of small compartments at either end, the berths in a Pullman are lined up down the corridor, one above the other in what is called the “open section.” Modesty is secured by the sleeping clothes one wears and by a heavy black curtain the porter hangs in front of each berth.
    The compartment has two sofa seats facing each other. There is not enough leg room between the two for people to face each other. Instead, one person sits at the end of a seat and the other person sits at the other end of the seat across the way. At night, the back from the sofa seats are used to fill the legroom to create the lower berth.
    The upper berth is presently flat against the wall and ceiling above his head as he sits on a sofa seat. It is “made down” by being dropped into position by the porter at bedtime.
    I chew on my bottom lip, trying to find a way out of the predicament, bringing more head shaking on his part.
    “You really don’t like to lose, do you? And it’s obvious that you give no quarter and take no prisoners. Do you always get your way?”
    “For your information, whatever slight progress I have made in this world has been the result of having to run twice as fast and twice as far as my peers. Now, sir, there are three contingencies to sharing this compartment. You forthwith pay me the ten dollars you owe, your deportment will never be less than the gentlemen you claim to be, and I get the lower berth.”
    The critical difference between the two berths is that the upper is as high up as my five-foot head-to-toe height. To get in and out, the porter provides a ladder at night and again in the morning.
    He hands me ten dollars. “Agreed. Except you get the upper.”
    “Any gentleman worthy of his salt would give a lady the lower. Please consider the situation. Your long frame makes it easy for you to reach the top bunk, while my short, insignificant body makes it a horrendous task because I am not a monkey.”
    “That’s why the porter has a ladder.”
    “I don’t like being cooped up. I get claustrophobic.”
    “Madam, perhaps for a moment you might want to consider my point of view. You wanted a sleeper badly enough to connive to get it, using me as your tool. Next, you attempt to evict me. Failing at that, you wish to cramp my long frame into a small box while you stretch out below in luxury. May I ask—are you by chance the only daughter of a railroad or banking magnate?”
    “I’ll have you know that I earn my bread with my own hands and the only thing I have to do with railroads is buying tickets, while banks are where I store what few hard-earned pennies I have left after providing for basics.”
    He jumps to his feet and offers his hand, a more English than American gesture when it comes to a woman, but one that independent women like myself are pleased to accept.
    “Watkins … Roger Watkins, New York City.”
    “Nellie Bly.