not a good citizen.

Perhaps that and nothing else was meant by the well-remembered
exclamation of my tutor.

It was in the jolly year 1873, the very last year in which I have had a
jolly holiday. There have been idle years afterwards, jolly enough in
a way and not altogether without their lesson, but this year of which I
speak was the year of my last schoolboy holiday. There are other reasons
why I should remember that year, but they are too long to state formally
in this place. Moreover they have nothing to do with that holiday. What
has to do with the holiday is that before the day on which the remark
was made we had seen Vienna, the Upper Danube, Munich, the Falls of
the Rhine, the Lake of Constance--in fact it was a memorable holiday of
travel. Of late we had been tramping slowly up the Valley of the Reuss.
It was a delightful time. It was much more like a stroll than a tramp.
Landing from a Lake of Lucerne steamer in Fluellen, we found ourselves
at the end of the second day, with the dusk overtaking our leisurely
footsteps, a little way beyond Hospenthal. This is not the day on which
the remark was made: in the shadows of the deep valley and with the
habitations of men left some way behind, our thoughts ran not upon the
ethics of conduct but upon the simpler human problem of shelter and
food. There did not seem anything of the kind in sight, and we were
thinking of turning back when suddenly at a bend of the road we came
upon a building, ghostly in the twilight.

At that time the work on the St. Gothard Tunnel was going on, and that
magnificent enterprise of burrowing was directly responsible for the
unexpected building, standing all alone upon the very roots of the
mountains. It was long though not big at all; it was low; it was built