“So, after all I’ve never seen a hobgoblin,” he said. “I’m eighty year old—I shall die afore I get another chance.”
“Never mind, grandad,” said Bridget, “ye’ll be afther seeing the Angels then, so it’ll be all right.”
A Sporting Kid[1]
I
The glorious day had come at last—the day when Harry and his mother and little sister were to start on their journey to Switzerland. They were going out for the whole winter, and Harry was frightfully excited about it. Fancy being up 7,000 feet in the mountains, and seeing nothing but snow, snow, snow, everywhere! And being able to toboggan and skate and ski all day! And then the journey—to cross the Channel, and then go in a train all day and all night!
The day had come, and Harry was safely in the train on his way to Folkestone. Crossing the Channel was great fun. It was rather rough, and all the old ladies sat tight in red wooden chairs, tucked up in stuffy old rugs. They got greener and greener and looked very unhappy. But Harry and his little sister went up on the top deck and ran about and enjoyed themselves hugely. It was very hard to walk straight, because the ship rolled from one side to the other, and you felt just as a fly on the wall must feel, clinging on with the soles of your feet.
At last the white cliffs of Dover disappeared, and there was nothing to be seen but sea and sky and half a dozen seagulls following the ship. And then a faint line showed on the horizon ahead, and it was the coast of France! Harry and his sister gazed at it, and thought to themselves that it was the first time in their lives they had seen a foreign country.
At last the boat steamed into the harbour at Boulogne. Crowds of funny old French porters came bustling on board. They were dressed in loose blue blouses, and they all talked in French and wrangled with each other and the passengers, as if they were very angry. But they weren’t really—it was only their French way. Harry’s mother managed to get hold of one, and he collected all her bags and suit cases and strapped them together on a long strap, and hung them over his shoulder. Harry thought to himself that he had never seen one man carry so many things before. He barged along through the crowd, shouting most rudely to make people get out of his way. He took all the things to a place called the douane—an awful place full of cross officials, who opened the boxes and pulled things about.
“What awful cheek!” said Harry. But his mother explained it was the Customs.
“A rotten custom, I call it, to pry about in a lady’s private luggage,” said Harry. So his mother explained it was the duty of the Customs officers to see that certain things like food and jewellery and tobacco were not taken into the country without duty being paid on them. When the luggage had all been packed up once again the old French porter, who walked just like a crab, went crawling off with his load to the train. It was a funny train—very high: or, rather, the platform was very low. At last they were all settled in, and in about half an hour they started.