I find myself
quite alone. I wait impatiently--a quarter of an hour--twenty-five
minutes--still no Porter; I am famished; to distract myself, I
peer through the door, whence I can discern the messy vista of the
railway-station in the rain; it's lucky I do so; for there I behold my
own portmanteau, with its huge purple stripe, being hauled away on the
back of a railway-man, followed by an alien Hotel Porter, _not mine_,
doing nothing: they are always doing nothing. To rush out indignantly,
seize my box, defy the brigands, and carry it back myself, seemed
the work of an instant. Drenched and gasping, I find myself once
more outside; the Porter of the Grand Hotel Du Lac is at my heels,
furious and impertinent. "Dis, _not_ your loggosh: other shentleman's
loggosh." He seized the portmanteau, and a struggle would certainly
have ensued, when my own Hotel Porter appeared on the scene
triumphant, with a regiment of station-men carrying one small tin box.
"What you do, Sar; see _here_, your loggosh!" The tin box belonged to
a commercial-traveller, who was bound for the Hotel Du Lac.
I am too exhausted to curse, and leave the rival Porters to fight it
out themselves, after paying off the ragged regiment of Station-men.
On the drive to the Hotel, the Porter tries to propitiate me.
"Pity shentlemans like you, Sar, fetch de loggosh. I tell you, better
leave it to me, Sar. You see, _I_ get your loggosh.
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