What this was meant to convey I did not understand, but my mind was made up, and very soon my bag was packed, and I was ready for the start. At all events, there was the utter novelty to me of being a guest on board one of the largest vessels afloat in the Indian Merchant Service (I believe it is the Indian Merchant Service, or, as Ollendorff would put it, "the Service of the Indian Merchant,") with a select party, limited, I supposed, to about a dozen "jolly companions every one," and in being taken in and done for en prince, en prince indien.
"Immensely kind of Rossher," I said to myself (and subsequently said it to him) as I alighted at the Waterloo Station, and proceeded at once to the wrong platform. I do not remember ever having been to Waterloo Station without having been to the wrong platform to begin with.
Bag in hand, and coat over arm—the wary sea-dog provides against probable squalls—I strode to another platform—wrong again. "The M. & N. Special," I panted to a porter, who was so taken aback by being appealed to suddenly, that for a few seconds he could only mop his heated brow and stare at me vaguely. Then after repeating my question twice, once to me and once to himself, he shook his head as if he were giving up a conundrum, whereupon to interest him personally in my proceedings I handed him my bag to carry. This looking like real business, he showed himself a man of vast resources by stopping an official in a buttoned-up uniform and a tall chimney-pot hat, and obtaining the information from him. Across the bridge and then second on the left. Off we go. Here we are. Board up labelled "M. & N. Special. Regina." A crowd is pouring in at the wicket-gate. Can they all be going by the M. & N. Special? Yes. I hear the question put, and those not possessing the proper tickets are sternly rejected. Some are sent off to another platform where there is another "M. & N. Special" for the Italia.
I present my ticket. It is examined, clipped, and I am passed in. Seeing a number of people ahead and an empty smoking-carriage close at hand, I jump into this, stow away my bag, and find myself with a quarter of an hour to the good. I get out to look about me. Enter Sir Peter Portland (looking younger than ever, as he always does whenever I meet him) in decidedly fashionable yachting-costume, cap and all (he once owned a yacht), carrying a brown-paper parcel. Delighted to see one another. He secures a seat in my carriage. So does another fellow, name unknown, but evidently a gallant seaman with a weather-beaten countenance. At the last moment hurries up Sir Thomas Quircke, also in full yachting-costume, cap and all, only not so bright and gay as Sir Peter, who I observe has on an evening white waistcoat and patent leather shoes, which combination gives a light and airy and hornpipy appearance to the wearer, which mere navy blue serge can never convey.
We, including the unknown man in the corner, with the weather-beaten face—the Knight of the Bronzed Features—congratulate ourselves on being the guests of the M. & N. Sir Peter produces his card of invitation. So does Sir Thomas; so does the Weather-beaten One. I feel in all my pockets. No. I've left it behind me. Sir Peter, Sir Thomas, and the Weather-beaten Stranger eye me suspiciously. There is a lull in the conversation. I tell my story, and try to interest them. It strikes me that they don't believe it; but my railway ticket proves my veracity. They brighten up again, but are evidently still far from clear that they are not travelling with an impostor.
"I don't see your name on the list," says Sir Peter, scanning a large card through his glasses.
"What list?" I ask, somewhat disturbed.
"List of guests," replies Sir Thomas, examining his card.
Weather-beaten Man hasn't got a list; he asks to be allowed to examine Sir Peter's. Aha! the Weather-beaten Man's name is not there. Sir Thomas and Sir Peter eye him with suspicion now. He explains and tells his story. If my name had been on the list I should have disbelieved him; but as it isn't, I only think that his account of being here at all is not so plausible and clear as my own.
"You've got the number of your berth?" asks Sir Thomas, looking round at me doubtfully, as if he were giving me a last chance.