tifying folly there was something so amazing that you
drew to the man as to that unknown something which the world had not
yet given to you, as a treasure to be worn daily in the privacy of your
own enjoyment. I had, as I have said, picked the Perfect Fool up at
Cowes, whither I had taken my yacht, _Celsis_, for the Regatta Week;
and he had clung to me ever since with a dogged obstinacy that was a
triumph. He had taken of my bread and eaten of my salt unasked; he was
not a man such as the men I knew--he was interested in nothing, not
even in himself--and yet I tolerated him. And in return for this
toleration he was about to make me lose a train for Paris.

"WILL YOU COME ON?" I roared for the tenth time, as the cracked bell
jangled and the guards hoisted the last stout person into the only
carriage where there was not a seat for her. "Don't you see we shall be
left behind? Hurry up! Hang your parcels! Now then--for the last time,
Hall, Hill, Hull, whatever your confounded name is, are you coming?"

Many guards gave a hand to the hoist, and the Perfect Fool fell upon
his hat-box, which was all the personal property he seemed to possess.
He apologised to Mary, who sat in the far corner, with more grace than
I had looked for from him, woke Roderick, who was in his fifth sleep
since luncheon, and then gathered the remnants of himself into a
coherent whole.

"Did anyone use my name?" he asked gravely, and as one offended. "I
thought I heard someone call me Hull?"

"Exactly; I think I called you every name in the Directory, but I'm
glad you answer to one of them."

"Yes, and I tell you what," said Roderick, "I wish you wouldn't come
into a railway carriage on your hands and knees, waking a fellow up
every time he tries to get a minute to himself; I don't speak for
myself, but for my sister."

The Perfect Fool made a profound bow to Mary, who looked very pretty in
her dainty yachting dress--she was only sixteen, I had known her all
her life--and he said, "I cannot make your sister an apology worthy of
her."

"If that isn't a shame, Mr. Hall," replied the blushing girl. "I never
go to sleep in railway carriages."

"No, of course you don't," said Roderick, as he made himself comfortable
for another nap, "but you may go to sleep in _a_ railway carriage;" then
with a grunt, "Wake me up at Amiens, old man," he sank to slumber.

The train moved slowly over the sandy marsh which lies between Calais
and Boulogne, and the va