We left Mexico City by the 5 P.M. train for Puebla. The train was full
and the first class compartment resembled a dirty tramcar. (I qualify
the tram car, because there are tramcars that are clean, but this
was not.) A wedding party came to see off a honeymoon couple. They
were a quiet and completely self-absorbed pair. I watched them rather
unmercifully. It took us five hours to get to Puebla. Long before that
time, the bride-groom, so smartly attired in frock coat, varnished
button boots, and cloth cap, wearied of his collar and deposited it
like a crown on his bride’s knees. He seemed happier so, and looked
much more himself with a handkerchief round his neck. Towards the
end of the journey, he seemed very impatient. Behind Dick and me sat
a large cigar smoking man, who in a foreign accent asked if we were
English. He was from Manchester, and had lived in Mexico 26 years! He
told us what hotel to go at Puebla, (we had reserved no rooms). He
insisted on buying lemonade and chicken for us at the wayside station.
Finally he took possession of our luggage and said he would himself
take us to our hotel in his car.
He was met on the platform by his son, and in his car sat his wife and
his daughter. I tried to back out discreetly and take a taxi, but they
were all very insistent, and kind. Finally, one hotel being full, he
found us rooms in the second. I asked him his name. He was the British
Vice Consul.