towards seven o'clock, and the question of feeding naturally came to
the fore. How was the Dilapidated One to get his meal at Tergnier,
the place where the military official informed us we should find "an
excellent repast, 'ot, and ready, with plenty of time to dispose of
'im with every facility," waiting for us.

[Illustration: "C'est tout, Monsieur?"]

Young JERRYMAN suggested the luncheon-basket, which he saw an American
get through the other day, containing two pork sandwiches, nine
inches long; half a fowl, a couple of rolls, three peaches, a bunch
of grapes, a jam-tart, and a bottle of wine; but Dr. MELCHISIDEC put
his veto on this, and, looking at the Dilapidated One critically, as
if he was wondering how much he weighed, if it came to carrying him,
came in with a judicial "No! no! I think we can manage to get him to
the Buffet," which settled the matter; and with the announcement that
we had all of us "_vingt-trois minutes d'arrêt_," we found ourselves
stepping across the growing dusk of the platform, into the cheerful
and brightly-lighted Station _Restaurant_, where a capital and
comfortable meal, excellently served, was awaiting us. And, O ye
shades of Rugby, Swindon, Crewe, Grantham, and I know not what other
British Railway feeding centres, at which I have been harassed,
scalded, and finally hurried away unfed, would that you could take a
lesson from the admirable management, consideration for the digestion
of the hungry passengers, and general all-round thoughtfulness that
characterises the taking of that meal "_de voyage_" at Tergnier.

[Illustration: Nach Engelberg!

* To be continued till further notice.]