ng
appealed to suddenly, that for a few seconds he could only mop his
heated brow and stare at me vaguely. Then after repeating my question
twice, once to me and once to himself, he shook his head as if he were
giving up a conundrum, whereupon to interest him personally in my
proceedings I handed him my bag to carry. This looking like real
business, he showed himself a man of vast resources by stopping an
official in a buttoned-up uniform and a tall chimney-pot hat, and
obtaining the information from him. Across the bridge and then second on
the left. Off we go. Here we are. Board up labelled "M. & N. Special.
_Regina._" A crowd is pouring in at the wicket-gate. Can they all be
going by the M. & N. Special? Yes. I hear the question put, and those
not possessing the proper tickets are sternly rejected. Some are sent
off to another platform where there is another "M. & N. Special" for the
_Italia_.

I present my ticket. It is examined, clipped, and I am passed in. Seeing
a number of people ahead and an empty smoking-carriage close at hand, I
jump into this, stow away my bag, and find myself with a quarter of an
hour to the good. I get out to look about me. Enter Sir PETER PORTLAND
(looking younger than ever, as he always does whenever I meet him) in
decidedly fashionable yachting-costume, cap and all (he once owned a
yacht), carrying a brown-paper parcel. Delighted to see one another. He
secures a seat in my carriage. So does another fellow, name unknown, but
evidently a gallant seaman with a weather-beaten countenance. At the
last moment hurries up Sir THOMAS QUIRCKE, also in full
yachting-costume, cap and all, only not so bright and gay as Sir PETER,
who I observe has on an evening white waistcoat and patent leather
shoes, which combination gives a light and airy and hornpipy appearance
to the wearer, which mere navy blue serge can never convey.

We, including the unknown man in the corner, with the weather-beaten
face--the Knight of the Bronzed Features--congratulate ourselves on
being the guests of the M. & N. Sir PETER produces his card of
invitation. So does Sir THOMAS; so does the Weather-beaten One. I feel
in all my pockets. No. I've left it behind me. Sir PETER, Sir THOMAS,
and the Weather-beaten Stranger eye me suspiciously. There is a lull in
the conversation. I tell my story, and try to interest them. It strikes
me that they don't believe it; but my railway ticket proves my veracity.
They brighten up again,