(_OR THE EXPERIENCES OF A "VACUUS VIATOR."_)
_At the Douane, Ostend._--Just off _Princesse Henriette_; passengers
hovering about excitedly with bunches of keys, waiting for their
luggage to be brought ashore. Why can't they take things quietly--like
_me_? _I_ don't worry. Saw my portmanteau and bag labelled at
Victoria. Sure to turn up in due time. Some men when they travel
insist on taking hand-bags into the carriage with them--foolish, when
they might have them put in the van and get rid of all responsibility.
The _douaniers_ are examining the luggage--don't see mine--as yet.
It's all _right_, of course. People who are going on to Brussels and
Antwerp at once would naturally have their luggage brought out first.
Don't see the good of rushing about like that myself. I shall stay the
night here--put up at one of the hotels on the Digue, dine, and get
through the evening pleasantly at the Kursaal--sure to be _something_
going on. Then I can go comfortably on by a mid-day train to-morrow.
Meanwhile my luggage still tarries. If I was a nervous man--luckily
I'm _not_. Come--that's the _bag_ at all events, with everything I
shall want for the night.... Annoying. Some other fellow's bag....
No more luggage being brought out. Getting anxious--at least, just a
shade uneasy. Perhaps if I asked somebody--Accost a Belgian porter;
he wants my baggage ticket. They never gave me any ticket. It _did_
occur to me (in the train) that I had always had my luggage registered
on going abroad before, but I supposed _they_ knew best, and didn't
worry. I came away to get a rest and avoid worry, and I _won't_
worry.... The Porter and I have gone on board to hunt for the things.
They aren't _there_. Left behind at Dover probably. Wire for them at
once. No idea how difficult it was to describe luggage vividly and
yet economically till I tried. However, it will be sent on by the next
boat, and arrive some time in the evening, so it's of no consequence.
Now for the Hotel. Ask for the bus for the _Continental_. The
_Continental_ is not open yet. Very well, the _Hôtel de la Plage_,
then. Closed! All the hotels facing the sea _are_, it seems.
Sympathetic Porter recommends one in the town, and promises to come
and tell me as soon as the luggage turns up.
[Illustration: "Please, de tings!"]
_At the Hotel._--Find, on getting out of the omnibus, that the Hotel
is being painted; entrance blocked by ladders and pails. Squeeze past,
and am received in the hall by the Proprietress and a German Waiter.
"Certainly they can give me a room--my baggage shall be taken up
immed--" Here I have to explain that this is impracticable, as my
baggage has unfortunately been left behind. Think I see a change in
their manner at this. A stranger who comes abroad with nothing but
a stick and an umbrella cannot _expect_ to inspire confidence, I
suppose. I remark to the Waiter that the luggage is sure to follow me
by the next boat, but it strikes even myself that I do not bring this
out with quite a sincere ring. Not at all the manner of a man who
possesses a real portmanteau. I order dinner--the kind of dinner,
I feel, that a man who did not intend to pay for it _would_ order.
I detect this impression in the Waiter's eye. If he dared, I know
he would suggest tea and a boiled egg as more seemly under the
circumstances.
_On the Digue._--Thought, it being holiday time, that there would
be more gaiety; but Ostend just now perhaps a little lacking in
liveliness--hotels, villas, and even the Kursaal all closely boarded
up with lead-coloured shutters. Only other person on Promenade a
fisher-boy scrooping over the tiles in _sabots_. I come to a glazed
shelter, and find the seats choked with drifting sand, and protected
with barbed wire. This depresses me. I did not want to sit down--but
the barbed wire _does_ seem needlessly unkind. Walk along the
sand-dunes; must pass the time somehow till dinner, and the arrival of
my luggage. Wonder whether it really _was_ labelled "Ostend." Suppose
the porter thought I said "Rochester" ... in that case--I will _not_
worry about it like this. I will go back and see the town.
I have; it is like a good many other foreign towns. I am melancholy.
I _can't_ dismiss that miserable luggage from my mind. To be alone
in a foreign land, without so much as a clean sock, is a distressing
position for a sensitive person. If I could only succeed in seeing a
humorous element in it, it would be _something_--but I can't. It is
too forlorn to be at all funny. And there is still an hour and a half
to get through before dinner!
I have dined--in a small room, with a stove, a carved buffet, and a
portrait of the King of the BELGIANS; but my spirits are still low.
German Waiter dubious about me; reserving his opinion for the present.
He comes in with a touch of new deference in his manner. "Please,
a man from de shdation for you." I go out--to find the sympathetic
Porter. My baggage has arrived? It has; it is at the Douane, waiting
for me. I am saved! I tell the Waiter, without elation, but with
what, I trust, is a calm dignity--the dignity of a man who has been
misunderstood, but would scorn to resent it.
_At the Station._--I have accompanied the Porter to the Terminus, such
a pleasant helpful fellow, so intelligent! The Ostend streets much
less dull at night. Feel relieved, in charity with all the world, now
that my prodigal portmanteau is safely reclaimed. Porter takes me
into a large luggage-room. Don't see my things just at first. "Your
baggage--_ere!_" says the Porter, proudly, and points out a little
drab valise with shiny black leather covers and brass studs--the kind
of thing a man goes a journey with in a French Melodrama! He is quite
hurt when I repudiate it indignantly; he tries to convince me that
it is mine--the fool! There is no other baggage of any sort, and mine
can't possibly arrive now before to-morrow afternoon, if then. Nothing
for it but to go back, luggageless, to the Hotel--and face that
confounded Waiter.
Walk about the streets. Somehow I don't feel quite up to going back
to the Hotel just yet. The shops, which are small and rather dimly
lighted, depress me. There is no theatre, nor _café chantant_ open
apparently. If there were, I haven't the heart for them to-night. Hear
music from a small _estaminet_ in a back street; female voice, with
fine Cockney accent, is singing "_Oh, dem Golden Slippers!_" Wonder
where _my_ slippers are!
_In my Bedroom._--I have had to come back at last, and get it
over with the Waiter. If he felt _any_ surprise, I think it was
to see me back at all. I have had to ask him if he could get me
some sleeping-things to pass the night in. _And_ a piece of soap.
Humiliating, but unavoidable. He promised, but he has not brought
them. Probably this last request has done for me, and he is now
communicating with the police....
A tap at my door. "Please, de tings!" says the Waiter. I have wronged
him. He has brought me _such_ a nightgown! Never saw anything in the
least like it before. It has flowers embroidered all down the front
and round the cuffs, and on every button something is worked in tiny
blue letters, which, on inspection, turns out to be "Good-night." I
don't quite know why, but, in my present state, I find this strangely
consoling, and even touching--like a benediction. After all, he _must_
believe in me, or he would hardly confide his purple and fine linen to
me like this. Go to bed gorgeous, and dream that my portmanteau, bag,
and self-respect are all restored to me by the afternoon boat....
There must be something in dreams, for, oddly enough, this is exactly
what _does_ happen.
Next morning, at breakfast, I am handed a mysterious and, at first
sight, rather alarming telegram from the Station-master at Dover.
"Your bones will be sent on next boat." Suspect the word in the
original was "_boxes_." But they may call them what they like, so
long as I get them back again.
* * * * *
"_The Campaign against the Jebus. Gallant Advance of the British._"
Dear old Mrs. RAM wants to know "who is commanding the British forces
in the campaign against the Jebus" (which she spells "Gibus")?
_Mr. Punch_ is glad to inform his estimable correspondent that the
principal officers commanding in the Gibus Campaign are Generals
WIDE-AWAKE, BILLICOCK, JIMCROW, POTT, and BELTOPPER. Their strategical
movements are worthy of the First Nap.
* * * * *
CONSIDERATE.--Arrangements are to be made for all Standing Committees
in future to sit at certain hours. "For this relief, much thanks," as
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, M.P., observed.
* * * * *
[Illustration: RECIPROCAL.
_Sporting Gentleman._ "WELL, SIR, I'M VERY PLEASED TO HAVE MADE YOUR
ACQUAINTANCE, AND HAD THE OPPORTUNITY OF HEARING A CHURCHMAN'S VIEWS
ON THE QUESTION OF TITHES. OF COURSE, AS A COUNTRY LANDOWNER, I'M
INTERESTED IN CHURCH MATTERS, AND--"
_The Parson._ "QUITE SO--DELIGHTED, I'M SURE. ER--BY THE BYE, COULD
YOU TELL ME _WHAT'S WON TO-DAY_?"]
* * * * *