porter-omnibus in fact; at last I find _The_ Grand Hôtel vehicle, and
functionary. The latter is of gigantic stature; quite a "chucker-out;"
in a uniform between that of a German bandsman and a Salvation
Captain--"Certinly, Sar. Dis Grand Hôtel; I see your Loggosh, Sar; gif
me se empfangschein." "Do you speak English?" I retort.--"Certinly;
spik Ingleese--empfangschein!"--"Empfangschein" baffles me, and I
am about to hand my keys to the monster, when a good-natured Courier
explains that it signifies the luggage-receipt.

Away ambles the Porter, leaving me with that orphaned sort of feeling
which a luggageless Englishman experiences; it is pouring cats and
dogs; I am dead beat; I creep into the dark omnibus. 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 Hôtel 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 Hôtel 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 Hôtel 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 Hôtel Du Lac.

I am too exhausted to curse, and leave the rival Porters to fight it