I sprang out of the carriage, nearly tumbling over a porter slowly passing along.
"How long are we to stay here?" I cried. "When do we start again for ——?" and I named the Junction.
"For ——" he repeated in the queerest German I ever heard—was it German? or did I discover his meaning by some preternatural cleverness of my own? "There is no train for —— for four or five hours, not till——" and he named the time; and leaning forward lazily, he took out my larger bag and my rug, depositing them on the platform. He did not seem the least surprised at finding me there—I might have been there for a week, it seemed to me.
"No train for five hours? Are you mad?" I said.
He shook his head and mumbled something, and it seemed to me that he pointed to the refreshment-room opposite. Gathering my things together I hurried thither, hoping to find some more reliable authority. But there was no one there except a fat man with a white apron, who was clearing the counter—and—yes, in one corner was the figure I had mentally dubbed "The man with the cough".
I addressed the cook or waiter—whichever he was. But he only shook his head—denied all knowledge of the trains, but informed me that—in other words—I must turn out; he was going to shut up.
"And where am I to spend the night, then?" I said angrily, though clearly it was not the aproned individual who was responsible for the position in which I found myself.
There was a "Restauration," he informed me, near at hand, which I should find still open, straight before me on leaving the station, and then a few doors to the right, I would see the lights.
Clearly there was nothing else to be done. I went out, and as I did so the silent figure in the corner rose also and followed me. The station was evidently going to bed. As I passed the porter I repeated the hour he had named, adding: "That is the first train for —— Junction?"
He nodded, again naming the exact time. But I cannot do so, as I have never been able to recollect it.