In his own travels he had himself experienced that sense of loneliness which is a decided misery, and had met others afflicted with it. From the manner of Clyde, he concluded he had an attack of it, and he desired to alleviate his sufferings; but if the young man’s friends were coming that night, his case could not be desperate.
“No, sir; I don’t know that you can. I thought, as your room is next to mine, we might make it jolly for each other. You are an American, sir, the waiter says.”
“Yes, I am,” laughed Paul.
“But you don’t talk through the nose.”
“Don’t I? Well, I don’t perceive that you do, either.”
“I’m not a Jonathan,” protested Clyde. “I dare say you are a fine gentleman, but I can’t say that of all the Americans.”
“Can’t you? Well, I’m sorry for them. Can you say it of all the Englishmen?”
“Yes, sir; I think I can of all we meet travelling. The Americans are big bullies. I settled accounts with one of them this very day,” chuckled Clyde.
“Ah! did you, indeed?”
“I think some of them know what it is to bully and insult an Englishman by this time,” added Clyde, rubbing his hands, as he thought of poor Peaks, floundering in the waters of the Fjord. “Perhaps you’ve heard of that American Academy ship that came into Christiania to-day.”