I had intended to have written, this week about "Loggosh"--including
that mysterious canvass hand-box which contains all that a foreigner
cares to carry about with him by day, and often pillows him when
travelling by night; but the very mention of luggage brings me back
to the Porter. I abominate him. I am "one who has suffered." So here
goes!
"Imposing," best describes the Hôtel porter; a very Grand Hôtel has
at least two of these impositions--the House Porter and the Omnibus
Porter. The latter you only see twice in your Hôtel existence, but he
is the most futile and the deadliest fraud of the two.
This Porter is part and parcel of that horrible deep-red-plush
nuisance, the Hôtel-omnibus. He and it are inseparables, and make up
a sort of Centaur between them. Once outside the Railway-station, I
am besieged by a babel of these Porter-omnibuses--"Bear Hôtel, Sor;"
"Grand Hôtel, Sor!"--This, from a very dilapidated specimen, which,
on inspection, turns out to be "Grand Hôtel Du Lac;" a pirate
porter-omnibus in fact; at last I find _The_ Grand Hôtel vehicle, and
functionary. The latter is of gigantic stature; quite a "chucker-out;"
in a uniform between that of a German bandsman and a Salvation
Captain--"Certinly, Sar. Dis Grand Hôtel; I see your Loggosh, Sar; gif
me se empfangschein." "Do you speak English?" I retort.--"Certinly;
spik Ingleese--empfangschein!"--"Empfangschein" baffles me, and I
am about to hand my keys to the monster, when a good-natured Courier
explains that it signifies the luggage-receipt.
Away ambles the Porter, leaving me with that orphaned sort of feeling
which a luggageless Englishman experiences; it is pouring cats and
dogs; I am dead beat; I creep into the dark omnibus. I find myself
quite alone. I wait impatiently--a quarter of an hour--twenty-five
minutes--still no Porter; I am famished; to distract myself, I
peer through the door, whence I can discern the messy vista of the
railway-station in the rain; it's lucky I do so; for there I behold my
own portmanteau, with its huge purple stripe, being hauled away on the
back of a railway-man, followed by an alien Hôtel Porter, _not mine_,
doing nothing: they are always doing nothing. To rush out indignantly,
seize my box, defy the brigands, and carry it back myself, seemed
the work of an instant. Drenched and gasping, I find myself once
more outside; the Porter of the Grand Hôtel Du Lac is at my heels,
furious and impertinent. "Dis, _not_ your loggosh: other shentleman's
loggosh." He seized the portmanteau, and a struggle would certainly
have ensued, when my own Hôtel Porter appeared on the scene
triumphant, with a regiment of station-men carrying one small tin box.
"What you do, Sar; see _here_, your loggosh!" The tin box belonged to
a commercial-traveller, who was bound for the Hôtel Du Lac.
I am too exhausted to curse, and leave the rival Porters to fight it
out themselves, after paying off the ragged regiment of Station-men.
On the drive to the Hôtel, the Porter tries to propitiate me.
"Pity shentlemans like you, Sar, fetch de loggosh. I tell you, better
leave it to me, Sar. You see, _I_ get your loggosh. Dat bizley Porter
of De Hôtel Du Lac, he change de empfangschein; but I sweep it from
him, and bring to de 'Bus"--"'Bus" was good--and then he laughed!
[Illustration: "Pity shentlemans like you, Sar, retchistar de
loggosh."]
I never saw the brute again until the time of my departure; I had
taken a carriage to the Station this time, thinking thereby to avoid
the Porter-omnibus. I had registered my traps myself, and was looking
out for some one to carry them to the den in which you are penned till
the train arrives, when, lo! the chucker-out! smiling and bowing as if
he had never seen me before--"Is better I retchistar de loggosh, Sar;
pity shentlemans like you, Sar, retchistar de loggosh."
I turn on my heel with an imprecation which "Ingleese-spikers"
understand. But he still waits there, smiling, and expecting to be
tipped, Let him wait. So much for the Omnibus-Porter--at once the Gamp
and Undertaker of my Grand Hôtel existence.
The House-Porter is of equal size, and equal uselessness. He sits
in the hall, and always rises and salutes when you pass. If you want
anything, he waits till you have got it, and then offers to procure
it for you. If you ask to be called early, he chalks something on a
slate, and you are safe not to be disturbed until you rise in your
wrath and ring violently. Should you be in a town, and wish to secure
theatre-tickets, he becomes more active; he implores you not to resort
to "De Boxing Office, vare you pay premiums, you see;" but he has one
or two left for sale. Should you be weak enough to yield, you will
find that the worst seats at the highest prices are yours; and, if you
remonstrate next day, he will sigh wearily, and remark,--"Is acheslant
places, Sar; but was Gala Night, you see,"--an enigma, which those who
run may read. He is always offering to do something, and doing _you_
instead. He is absolutely unnecessary, for there is seldom anyone in a
Grand Hôtel to "chuck out," and this would be his only justification.
* * * * *