One day, as we returned together to the Hotel Post, he held out his hand.
“I’m off to-morrow,” he said; “off to Innsbruck. So I shall bid you good-bye. I am very glad indeed to have met you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” I replied. “But I won’t say good-bye now, I’ll see you to the station to-morrow.”
“No, don’t do that. I shall be away before you are up. We’ll say good- bye here.”
We did, and when I had breakfast next morning I found Johnson had left by the early train. I wandered around the park that forenoon mourning for Johnson. The place seemed lonely without him. In the afternoon I explored some of the by-paths of the park within hearing distance of the band, when suddenly, to my intense surprise, I met my departed friend.
“Hello! Johnson,” I cried, “I thought you left this morning.”
The man looked at me with no recognition in his face.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “my name is Baumgarten.”
Looking more closely at him I at once saw I was mistaken. I had been thinking of Johnson at the time, which probably accounted for the error. Still, his likeness to Johnson was remarkable—to Johnson well groomed. He had neatly-trimmed side-whiskers and moustache, while Johnson had a full beard. His round hat was new, and he wore an irreproachable collar, and even cuffs. Besides this he sported a cane, and evidently possessed many weaknesses to which Johnson was superior. I apologized for my mistake, and was about to walk on when Baumgarten showed signs of wishing to become acquainted.
“I have just arrived,” he said, “and know nothing of the place. Have you been here long?”