A Fool and His Money Part 45

Britton, resourceful fellow, put an end to his endeavours by jumping upon the mop and pinning it to the floor very much as he would have stamped upon a wounded rat.

The fellow called out l.u.s.tily to some one in the kitchen, at the same time giving the mop handle a mighty jerk. If you are expecting me to say that Britton came to woe, you are doomed to disappointment. It was just the other way about. Just as the prodigious yank took place, my valet hopped nimbly from the mop, and the waiter sat down with a stunning thud.

I do not know what might have ensued had not the proprietress of the place appeared at that instant, coming from the kitchen. She was the cook as well, and she was large enough to occupy the s.p.a.ce of at least three Brittons. She was huge beyond description.

"Wa.s.s iss?" she demanded, pausing aghast. Her voice was a high, belying treble.

I shall not attempt to describe in detail all that followed. It is only necessary to state that she removed the mop from the hands of the quaking menial and fairly swabbed him out into the thick of the rainstorm.

While we were drinking our hot, steaming coffee and gorging ourselves with frankfurters, the poor wretch stood under the eaves with his face glued to the window, looking in at us with mournful eyes while the drippings from the tiles poured upon his shoulders and ran in rivulets down his neck. I felt so sorry for him that I prevailed upon the muttering, apologetic hostess to take him in again. She called him in as she might have called a dog, and he edged his way past her with the same scared, alert look in his eyes that one always sees in those of an animal that has its tail between its legs.

She explained that he was her nephew, just off the farm. Her sister's son, she said, and naturally not as intelligent as he ought to be.

While we were sitting there at the counter, a train roared past the little station. We rushed to the door in alarm. But it shot through at the rate of fifty miles an hour. I looked at my watch. It still wanted half-an-hour of train time, according to the schedule.

"It was the express, mein herr," explained the woman. "It never stops.

We are too small yet. Some time we may be big enough." I noticed that her eyes were fixed in some perplexity on the old clock above the pie shelves. "Ach! But it has never been so far ahead of time as to-night.

It is not due for fifteen minutes yet, and here it is gone yet."

"Perhaps your clock is slow," I said. "My watch says four minutes to twelve."

Whereupon she heaped a tirade of abuse upon the shrinking Hans for letting the clock lose ten minutes of her valuable time. To make sure, Hans set it forward nearly half an hour while she was looking the other way. Then he began mopping the floor again.

At half-past twelve the train from Munich drew up at the station, panted awhile in evident disdain, and then moved on.

A single pa.s.senger alighted: a man with a ba.s.s viol. There was no sign of the t.i.tuses!

We made a careful and extensive search of the station, the platform and even the surrounding neighbourhood, but it was quite evident that they had not left the train. Here was a pretty pa.s.s! Britton, however, had the rather preposterous idea that there might be another train a little later on. It did not seem at all likely, but we made inquiries of the station agent. To my surprise--and to Britton's infernal British delight--there was a fast train, with connections from the north, arriving in half an hour. It was, however, an hour late, owing to the storm.

"Do you mean that it will arrive at two o'clock?" I demanded in dismay.

"No, no," said the guard; "it will arrive at one but not until two.

It is late, mein herr."

We dozed in the little waiting-room for what I consider to be the longest hour I've ever known, and then hunted up the guard once more.

He blandly informed me that it was still an hour late.

"An hour from _now_?" I asked.

"An hour from two," said he, pityingly. What ignorant lummixes we were!

Just ten minutes before three the obliging guard came in and roused us from a mild sleep.

"The train is coming, mein herr."

"Thank G.o.d!"

"But I neglected to mention that it is an express and never stops here."

My right hand was still in a bandage, but it was so nearly healed that I could have used it without discomfort--(note my ability to drive a motor car)--and it was with the greatest difficulty that I restrained a mad, devilish impulse to strike that guard full upon the nose, from which the raindrops coursed in an interrupted descent from the visor of his cap.

The shrill, childish whistle of the locomotive reached us at that instant. A look of wonder sprang into the eyes of the guard.

"It--it is going to stop, mein herr," he cried. "Gott in himmel! It has never stopped before." He rushed out upon the platform in a great state of agitation, and we trailed along behind him, even more excited than he.

It was still raining, but not so hard. The glare of the headlight was upon us for an instant and then, pa.s.sing, left us in blinding darkness.

The brakes creaked, the wheels grated and at last the train came to a standstill. For one horrible moment I thought it was going on through in spite of its promissory signal. Britton went one way and I the other, with our umbrellas ready. Up and down the line of _wagon lits_ we raced. A conductor stepped down from the last coach but one, and prepared to a.s.sist a pa.s.senger to alight. I hastened up to him.

"Permit me," I said, elbowing him aside.

A portly lady squeezed through the vestibule and felt her way carefully down the steps. Behind her was a smallish, bewhiskered man, trying to raise an umbrella inside the narrow corridor, a perfectly impossible feat.

She came down into my arms with the limpness of one who is accustomed to such attentions, and then wheeled instantly upon the futile individual on the steps above.

"Quick! My hat! Heaven preserve us, how it rains!" she cried, in a deep, wheezy voice and--in German!

"Moth--" I began insinuatingly, but the sacred word died unfinished on my lips. The next instant I was scurrying down the platform to where I saw Britton standing.

"Have you seen them?" I shouted wildly.

"No, sir. Not a sign, sir. Ah! See!"

He pointed excitedly down the platform.

"No!" I rasped out. "By no possible stretch of the imagination can _that_ be Mrs. t.i.tus. Come! We must ask the conductor. _That_ woman?

Good Lord, Britton, she _waddles!_"

The large lady and the smallish man pa.s.sed us on the way to shelter, the latter holding an umbrella over her hat with one hand and lugging a heavy hamper in the other. They were both exclaiming in German. The station guard and the conductor were bowing and sc.r.a.ping in their wake, both carrying boxes and bundles.

No one else had descended from the train. I grabbed the conductor by the arm.

"Any one else getting off here?" I demanded in English and at once repeated it in German.

He shook himself loose, dropped the bags in the shelter of the station house, doffed his cap to the imperious backs of his late pa.s.sengers, and scuttled back to the car. A moment later the train was under way.

"Can you not see for yourself?" he shouted from the steps as he pa.s.sed me by.

Once more I swooped down upon the guard. He was stuffing the large German lady into a small, lopsided carriage, the driver of which was taking off his cap and putting it on again after the manner of a mechanical toy.

"Go away," hissed the guard angrily. "This is the Mayor and the Mayoress. Stand aside! Can't you see?"

Presently the Mayor and the Mayoress were snugly stowed away in the creaking hack, and it rattled away over the cobblestones.

"When does the next train get in?" I asked for the third time. He was still bowing after the departing hack.

"Eh? The next? Oh, mein herr, is it you?"

"Yes, it is still I. Is there another train soon?"