commiseration and obduracy. No, he was compelled to inform Monsieur the
American (to the dismay of the pseudo-Englishman) it would be impossible
to arrange for another compartment. The train was crowded to its
capacity. Many had been turned away. No, a louis would not be of avail.
The deepest grief and anguish filled his soul to see the predicament of
Monsieur, but there was no relief.

Brock's miserable affectation of the English drawl soon gave way to
sharp, emphatic Americanisms. It was after eight o'clock and the train
was well under way. The street lamps were getting fewer and fewer, and
the soft, fresh air of the suburbs was rushing through the window.

"But, hang it all, I _can't_ sit up all night!" growled Brock in
exasperated finality.

"Monsieur forgets that he has a berth. It is not the fault of the
_compagnie_ that he is without a bed. Did not M'sieur book the
compartment himself? _Très bien!_"

As the result of strong persuasion, the _garde_ consented to make "the
grand tour" of the train de luxe in search of a berth. It goes without
saying that he was intensely mystified by Brock's incautious remark that
he would be satisfied with "an upper if he couldn't do any better." For
the life of him, Monsieur the _garde_ could not comprehend the
situation. He went away, shaking his head and looking at the tickets, as
much as to say that an American is never satisfied--not even with the
best.

Brock lowered a window-seat in the passage and sat down, staring blankly
and blackly out into the whizzing night. The predicament had come upon