“It must have,” I said.
“Poor old Loo Jones was getting pretty well used up with it all. However, we determined to see it through somehow.”
“What did you do next?”
“Tried again to get money: couldn’t—they changed our Hungarian paper into Italian gold, but they refused to give us American money.”
“Hoarding it?” I hinted.
“Exactly,” said Parkins, “hoarding it all for the war. Well anyhow we got on a train for Italy and there our troubles began all over again:—train stopped at the frontier,—officials (fellows in Italian uniforms) went all through it, opening hand baggage—”
“Not hand baggage!” I gasped.
“Yes, sir, even the hand baggage. Opened it all, or a lot of it anyway, and scribbled chalk marks over it. Yes, and worse than that,—I saw them take two fellows and sling them clear off the train,—they slung them right out on to the platform.”
“What for?” I asked.
“Heaven knows,” said Parkins,—“they said they had no tickets. In war time you know, when they’re mobilizing, they won’t let a soul ride on a train without a ticket.”