I went away in a thoughtful frame of mind.  I began to see why a courier could afford to work for fifty-five dollars a month and his fares.  A month or two later I was able to understand why a courier did not have to pay any board and lodging, and why my hotel bills were always larger when I had him with me than when I left him behind, somewhere, for a few days.

Another thing was also explained, now, apparently.  In one town I had taken the courier to the bank to do the translating when I drew some money.  I had sat in the reading-room till the transaction was finished.  Then a clerk had brought the money to me in person, and had been exceedingly polite, even going so far as to precede me to the door and holding it open for me and bow me out as if I had been a distinguished personage.  It was a new experience.  Exchange had been in my favor ever since I had been in Europe, but just that one time.  I got simply the face of my draft, and no extra francs, whereas I had expected to get quite a number of them.  This was the first time I had ever used the courier at the bank.  I had suspected something then, and as long as he remained with me afterward I managed bank matters by myself.

Still, if I felt that I could afford the tax, I would never travel without a courier, for a good courier is a convenience whose value cannot be estimated in dollars and cents.  Without him, travel is a bitter harassment, a purgatory of little exasperating annoyances, a ceaseless and pitiless punishment—­I mean to an irascible man who has no business capacity and is confused by details.

Without a courier, travel hasn’t a ray of pleasure in it, anywhere; but with him it is a continuous and unruffled delight.  He is always at hand, never has to be sent for; if your bell is not answered promptly—­and it seldom is—­you have only to open the door and speak, the courier will hear, and he will have the order attended to or raise an insurrection.  You tell him what day you will start, and whither you are going—­leave all the rest to him.  You need not inquire about trains, or fares, or car changes, or hotels, or anything else.  At the proper time he will put you in a cab or an omnibus, and drive you to the train or the boat; he has packed your luggage and transferred it, he has paid all the bills.  Other people have preceded you half an hour to scramble for impossible places and lose their tempers, but you can take your time; the courier has secured your seats for you, and you can occupy them at your leisure.

At the station, the crowd mash one another to pulp in the effort to get the weigher’s attention to their trunks; they dispute hotly with these tyrants, who are cool and indifferent; they get their baggage billets, at last, and then have another squeeze and another rage over the disheartening business of trying to get them recorded and paid for, and still another over the equally disheartening business of trying to get near enough to the ticket office to buy a ticket;