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 place in a sort of gigantic Gladstone Bag—­an illusion assisted, no doubt, by the prominence of a deal of silver-plated fittings, in the shape of knobs and door-handles, all somewhat tarnished and dusty.  True, the compartment, which gave on to a corridor running the whole length of the carriage, was provided with a table, an inkstand, a large pan for cigar-ash, and a colossal spittoon; but as one had no immediate need of any of these things, and they filled up the already sufficiently limited space, one was strongly disposed, but for the presence of the military official of the Wagons Lits who paced the corridor before alluded to, to pitch them all out of the window then and there.  But it was drawing on towards seven o’clock, and the question of feeding naturally came to the fore.  How was the Dilapidated One to get his meal at Tergnier, the place where the military official informed us we should find “an excellent repast, ’ot, and ready, with plenty of time to dispose of ’im with every facility,” waiting for us.

[Illustration:  “C’est tout, Monsieur?”]

Young JERRYMAN suggested the luncheon-basket, which he saw an American get through the other day, containing two pork sandwiches, nine inches long; half a fowl, a couple of rolls, three peaches, a bunch of grapes, a jam-tart, and a bottle of wine; but Dr. MELCHISIDEC put his veto on this, and, looking at the Dilapidated One critically, as if he was wondering how much he weighed, if it came to carrying him, came in with a judicial “No! no!  I think we can manage to get him to the Buffet,” which settled the matter; and with the announcement that we had all of us “vingt-trois minutes d’arret,” we found ourselves stepping across the growing dusk of the platform, into the cheerful and brightly-lighted Station Restaurant, where a capital and comfortable meal, excellently served, was awaiting us.  And, O ye shades of Rugby, Swindon, Crewe, Grantham, and I know not what other British Railway feeding centres, at which I have been harassed, scalded, and finally hurried away unfed, would that you could take a lesson from the admirable management, consideration for the digestion of the hungry passengers, and general all-round thoughtfulness that characterises the taking of that meal “de voyage” at Tergnier.

[Illustration:  Nach Engelberg!

* To be continued till further notice.]