A
little pile of luggage, with his initials, G. P., was on the end of the
platform nearest to him.
"That conductor was a sensible chap," he exclaimed. "Glad I tipped him.
Hullo!"
The station-master, in uniform, came hurrying out. The young Englishman
took off his hat, and produced a phrase book from his pocket. He ignored
the stream of words which the station-master, with many gesticulations,
was already pouring out.
"My luggage," he said firmly, laying one hand upon the pile, and waving
the phrase book.
The station-master acquiesced heartily. He waxed eloquent again, but the
Englishman was busy with the phrase book.
"Hungry! Hotel?" he attempted.
The station-master pointed to where the smoke was curling upwards from a
score or so of houses about half a mile distant. The Englishman was
getting pleased with himself. Outside was a weird-looking carriage, and
on the box seat, fast asleep, was a very fat man in a shiny hat,
ornamented by a bunch of feathers. He pointed to the luggage, then to
the cab, and finally to the village.
"Luggage, hotel, carriage!" he suggested.
The station-master beamed all over. With a shout, which must have
reached the village, he awakened the sleeping man.
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