I don’t exactly know how I got mixed up with it, but I found myself somehow “fixed,” as our American cousins would say, to join a party who were going to see Old JEPHSON (the Q.C.), who had broken “down,” or broken “up,” or had gone through some mental and physical smashing process or other, that necessitated an immediate recourse to mountain air,—­to where he could get it of the right sort and quality with as little strain or tax on his somewhat shattered nerves as might be compatible with a dash into the heart of Switzerland at the fag-end of the swarming tourists’ season.  “Murren will be too high for him:  distinctly too high for him,” thoughtfully observed the distinguished specialist who had been called in, and had at once prescribed the “air tonic” in question; “and the Burgenstock would be too low.  His condition requires an elevation of about 3500 feet.  Let me see.  Ha!  Engelberg is the place for him.  My dear lady,” he continued, addressing Mrs. JEPHSON, who had already imbibed the theory that every altitude, from Primrose Hill to 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.