“Yes,” said Parkins, “but I guess he suspected we weren’t Hungarians. You see, we couldn’t either of us speak Hungarian. In fact we spoke nothing but English.”
“That would give him a clue,” I said.
“However,” he went on, “he was civil enough in a way. We asked when was the next train to the sea coast, and he said there wasn’t any.”
“No trains?” I repeated.
“Not to the coast. The man said the reason was because there wasn’t any railway to the coast. But he offered to sell us tickets to Vienna. We asked when the train would go and he said there wouldn’t be one for two hours. So there we were waiting on that wretched little platform,—no place to sit down, no shade, unless one went into the waiting room itself,—for two mortal hours. And even then the train was an hour and a half late!”
“An hour and a half late!” I repeated.
“Yep!” said Parkins, “that’s what things were like over there. So when we got on board the train we asked a man when it was due to get to Vienna, and he said he hadn’t the faintest idea!”
“Good heavens!”
“Not the faintest idea. He told us to ask the conductor or one of the porters. No, sir, I’ll never forget that journey through to Vienna,—nine mortal hours! Nothing to eat, not a bite, except just in the middle of the day when they managed to hitch on a dining-car for a while. And they warned everybody that the dining-car was only on for an hour and a half. Commandeered, I guess after that,” added Parkins, puffing his cigarette.
“Well,” he continued, “we got to Vienna at last. I’ll never forget the scene there, station full of people, trains coming and going, men, even women, buying tickets, big piles of luggage being shoved on trucks. It gave one a great idea of the reality of things.”