I was in the train because I had to go to Birmingham; I was in the
dining car because I had to dine. With all respect to the Company I
cannot pretend that I regarded myself as doing anything remarkable or
distinguished. The little man opposite me, however, felt differently.
I have since been told that they of Birmingham are very proud of their
non-stop train service by both routes.
"This, Sir," said the stranger, as I lowered my paper to help myself
to a proffered roll--"this is one of the Two-Hour trains."
"You don't say," said I politely but not encouragingly.
"Two hours," he repeated impressively.
"Indeed? Two whole hours and not a moment less?" and I returned to my
paper pending the soup's arrival.
"Is it not wonderful," he resumed when I was at his mercy again,
"to be travelling at sixty miles an hour and eating soup at the same
time?"
"Some people eat soup," said I, "and some drink it. For myself, I give
it a miss;" and I returned to the news.
With the fish: "I came up by the breakfast train this morning," said
he, "and I now return by the dining train." He meant by this to give
credit to the Company rather than to himself, but even so it seemed to
fall short of the complete ideal. There was something wanting. It was
luncheon, of course.
"They run luncheon cars too," said he.
"Then there seems to be no reason why you should ever leave the train
at all," I remarked, seeking refuge again in my paper. In spite,
however, of my coldness, he continued to assail me with similar facts
every time I emerged. Finally he took a sheet of slightly soiled paper
and pencilled on it a schedule of our movements. It ran:--
Mileage. Place. Time.
-- Euston 6.55 P.M.
5½ Willesden [7.4] "
17½ Watford [7.18] "
46¾ Bletchley [7.50] "
82¼ Rugby [8.24] "
94¼ Coventry [8.36] "
113 Birmingham 8.55 "
"To give this the very careful consideration it deserves," said I, "I
must be left absolutely to myself."
Later on, feeling that I had perhaps been rude, I offered the man a
cigar by way of compensation. He accepted it as a mark of esteem and
burst forth into more conversation. By now a little fed up with trains
himself he suggested, for the sake of something new to say, that he
had met me before somewhere. At first I had some idea of asking for my
cigar to be returned, but instead I gave in to his persistence. More,
I joined in the conversation with an energy which surprised him.
"Now I come to think of it we _have_ seen each other before; but
where?" I said.
He thought promiscuously, disconnectedly and aloud. I could accept
none of his suggestions because all referred to commercial rooms in
provincial hotels, places to which I have not the _entrée_. "But I
know now," I declared brightly; "it was at a place just this side of
London that I saw you first."
"First?" he asked.
"Oh yes," said I. "I have seen you more than once. Surely you haven't
forgotten that time at Watford?"
He felt that I had the advantage of him. "When was that?" he asked.
"Not very long after the first time; and the next occasion I remember
seeing you was at a place called--called--something beginning with a
B."
He was quite unable to cope with the situation.
"And the next time," I continued, "I happened to be passing through
that town where the school is--you know, Rugby. I distinctly recollect
noticing then that you hadn't changed in the least since I last saw
you."
He couldn't decide whether to be more flattered at my remembering or
more annoyed at his own forgetting.
"Come, come," I exclaimed, "you surely cannot have forgotten that
little chat we had at Coventry?"
"Coventry?" he asked. "But how long ago was that?"
"Quite recently," I asserted.
"But I haven't set foot in Coventry for years," said he.
"Nor have I, ever," said I.
I could understand his feelings thoroughly. It might be that I was a
liar; it might be that I was a lunatic. In either case he did not wish
to converse further with me. Happily, I had two newspapers available.
* * * * *
As the speed of our train, in which of old he had taken such a pride,
began to slacken: "And I shouldn't be surprised," I said from behind
my paper, "if you and I saw each other again quite soon. The world is
a small place and these things soon develop into a habit."
He made no answer from behind his paper.
"If you ask me when and where" (as in fact he didn't), "I should say
it is just as likely as not to happen at Birmingham at about 8.55
P.M.," I estimated, relying upon his own schedule.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE SAND CAMPAIGN.
SCENE--_Algeria, on the border of the desert_.
THE ARAB AND THE CHANCELLOR
WERE WALKING HAND-IN-HAND;
THE LATTER WEPT A LOT TO SEE
SUCH QUANTITIES OF SAND;
"WHY ARE YOU HOLDING UP," HE SAID,
"THIS VERY FERTILE LAND?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Harold_ (_who has just been kissed by his sister_). "I
SAY, I WONDER WHAT SHE'S UP TO?"
_Friend_. "SIGN OF AFFECTION, ISN'T IT?"
_Harold_. "_AFFECTION_, YOU GOAT! SHE NEVER DOES THAT TILL THE LAST
DAY OF THE HOLS, AND THERE'S A WEEK TO GO YET."]
* * * * *
"The play was preceded by 'The £12 Hook,' another Barrie
comedy of more recent date."--_Sydney Morning Herald_.