out themselves, after paying off the ragged regiment of Station-men.
On the drive to the Hôtel, 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. Dat bizley Porter
of De Hôtel Du Lac, he change de empfangschein; but I sweep it from
him, and bring to de 'Bus"--"'Bus" was good--and then he laughed!

[Illustration: "Pity shentlemans like you, Sar, retchistar de
loggosh."]

I never saw the brute again until the time of my departure; I had
taken a carriage to the Station this time, thinking thereby to avoid
the Porter-omnibus. I had registered my traps myself, and was looking
out for some one to carry them to the den in which you are penned till
the train arrives, when, lo! the chucker-out! smiling and bowing as if
he had never seen me before--"Is better I retchistar de loggosh, Sar;
pity shentlemans like you, Sar, retchistar de loggosh."

I turn on my heel with an imprecation which "Ingleese-spikers"
understand. But he still waits there, smiling, and expecting to be
tipped, Let him wait. So much for the Omnibus-Porter--at once the Gamp
and Undertaker of my Grand Hôtel existence.

The House-Porter is of equal size, and equal uselessness. He sits
in the hall, and always rises and salutes when you pass. If you want
anything, he waits till you have got it, and then offers to procure
it for you. If you ask to be called early, he chalks something on a
slate, and you are safe not to be disturbed until you rise in your
wrath and ring violently. Should you be in a town, and wish to secure