he descried a small door half open, and inside what looked like an empty
seat. He pulled it open, and discovered a small, select compartment with
a centre table and three men about it, all making themselves very
comfortable.

"I beg your pardon," said Peter, "but is there a place vacant for one?"

The three eyed him stonily, and he knew instinctively that he was again a
fresher calling on the second year. One, a Captain, raised his head to
look at him better. He was a man of light hair and blue, alert eyes,
wearing a cap that, while not looking dissipated, somehow conveyed the
impression that its owner knew all about things--a cap, too, that carried
the Springbok device. The lean face, with its humorous mouth, regarded
Peter and took him all in: his vast expanse of collar, the wide black
edging to his shoulder-straps, his brand-new badges, his black buttons
and stars. Then he lied remorselessly:

"Sorry, padre; we're full up."

Peter backed out and forgot to close the door, for at that moment a
shrill whistle was excruciatingly blown. He found himself in the very cab
of the Pullman with the glass door before him, through which could be
seen a sudden bustle. Subalterns hastened forward from the more or less
secluded spots that they had found, with a vision of skirts and hats
behind them; an inspector passed aggressively along; and--thanks to those
high gods--Peter observed the hurrying hotel porter at that moment. In
sixty seconds the door had been jerked open; a gladstone, a suit-case,
and a kit-bag shot at him; largesse had changed hands; the door had shut
again; the train had groaned and started; and Peter was off to France.