Mont Blanc, suited its special
ailment, the only thing necessary being to hit on the right one, "My
dear lady, get your good husband to Engelberg at once. Write to HERR
CATTANI, Hotel Titlis, Engelberg, Unterwalden, asking what day he can
receive you (use my name), and then, as soon as you can possibly get
off, start. I can promise you it will do wonders for our patient."

[Illustration: Lit de Luxe!]

So, in about five days, we found ourselves, a party of six (including
young JERRYMAN, who said that, though he saw no difference between
Lucerne and Bayswater, except that Bayswater was a "howling
site bigger," he would come, "if only for the lark of seeing the
dilapidated old boy" (his way of referring to his invalid Q.C.
Uncle) "shovelled about the Bernese Oberland like a seedy Guy
Faux,") crossing the silver streak on that valued, steady-going,
and excellently well-found Channel friend, the _Calais-Douvres_. Of
course we made a fresh friend for life on board--one always does. We
counted up fifty-seven fresh friends for life we had made, one way
and another, on our way, before we got home again. This was a Dr.
MELCHISIDEC, who at once yielded his folding-chair to the Dilapidated
One, and, finding himself bound also for Engelberg, attached himself
as a sort of General-Director and Personal Conductor to our party.
"Had we got our tickets through COOK, and asked him to secure our
places in the train?" he inquired. "We had." "Ha! then it would be
all right." And it was. On our arriving at Calais, no crush, or
excitement, and fighting for places. We were met by three courteous,
military-looking officials, who talked four languages between them,
and ushered us to our "reserved" places. Royalty could not have fared
better. "You're all right with COOK," observed Dr. MELCHISIDEC. "He's
got a man everywhere; and, if there's any hitch, you've only got
to call him in. A clear case of too many Cooks _not_ spoiling the
broth." And so we found it. I had always hitherto considered Cook's
Excursionists as rather a comic institution, and as something to be
laughed at. Nothing of the sort. "Blessed be COOK!" say I. All I
know is, that we found his name a perfect tower of strength along
the entire route we traversed.

And now we were whirling along towards Basle in the rather stuffy
splendours provided for us by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons
Lits, that reminded one, as much as anything of being fixed into
one's allotted plac