“Wo fahren Sie hin?” asked the porter who operated the hand-truck, as he went leisurely after their haste.
“Zurich,” said Jack, “and wir haben sehr wenig time to spare; you want to look lively.” Then he rushed to the ticket gate to send Rosina and her maid aboard while the trunk was being weighed.
“Wo fahren Sie hin?” asked the man at the gate.
“Zurich.”
“Train goes at 7.45.”
“It doesn’t either,” said Jack, who understood German fluently, “it goes at 7.20.”
For answer the man pointed to the great sign above his head, which bore out the truth of his statement in letters six inches high.
“Well, I vow,” said Jack blankly, “if that man at Schenker’s isn’t the worst fraud I ever ran up against. Say, cousin, we’ve got over half an hour to check my trunk in.”
She shook her head as if she didn’t care.
“I’ll go and see to it now,” he said, “and then I’ll come back here and try to get on to the train.”