The stranger said, in painstaking English, "I wish this trunk put upon the hotel omnibus."
The porter, understanding this, cheerfully shouldered the trunk and disappeared, the traveler meanwhile lighting a cigarette and gazing round the station at the town beyond with a look of interest.
"Now, sir," said the porter, returning, "what are we to do with all this stuff?"
It looked like machinery—curiously shaped, spiky packages sewn up in canvas.
"I wish that put—how do you say?—ah, yes—en consigne, s'il vous plait—pardon, I would mean—en consigne—hein?"
The porter looked blank. "No parly frongsay," he remarked, resentfully.
"Wants you to cloak it, fathead," said Felix, unable to hold his tongue.
"To cloak it—eh? Why in blazes don't 'e say so, then. This way, mounseer."
"Le mettre en consigne pendant quelques jours, monsieur," cried the foreigner, eagerly pouncing on Felix. "Malheureusement je ne puis pas dire—je ne sais pas pour quel temps—combien faut-il payer maintenant?"
Felix turned good-naturedly to him. "You want to cloak it, and you do not know for how long?" he said in French. "That's all right, you take a ticket now, nothing to pay, and when you want it out, you produce the ticket and pay so much for each day."