“Do we change again?” Rosina asked with latent sarcasm, when the guard (a handsome guard, worthy to have been a first lieutenant at the very least) came through to tear some pages out of their little books.
“Wo fahren Sie hin?” he asked, with a beaming smile.
“Zurich,” Jack sung out, with renewed vigor.
The guard opened the door leading into the next compartment, and then, when his exit was assured, he told them:
“Must in St. Margarethen change,” and vanished.
“He knows the time for disappearing, evidently,” Jack said; “I bet somebody that felt as I do threw him out of the window when he said that once. And I have a first-class notion of getting down and taking the next train straight back to Munich for the express purpose of murdering that fellow that started us out this morning.”
Rosina felt a deep satisfaction that none of his heat could be charged up to her; she had offered no advice as to this unlucky day. She sat there silent, her eyes turned upon the last view of the Bodensee, and after some varied and picturesque swearing her cousin laid down and went to sleep again.
They arrived in St. Margarethen about half-past five, and night, a damp, chill night, was falling fast. The instant that the train halted a guard rushed in upon them.
“Wo fahren Sie hin?” he cried, breathlessly.
“Zurich, d—— you!” Jack howled. He was making too small a shawl-strap meet around too large a rug for the fifth time that day, and the last remnant of his patience had fled.