A month ago I was in Interlaken. One evening after dinner I strolled
along the main street, where all the hotels and shops are drawn up at
attention before the lovely mountain. In front of one of the shops
I saw a collection of walking sticks and, since I needed one for
climbing, I paused to look them over. I had been at this only a
moment when a young Englishman stepped up and also began examining
the sticks.

I had made a selection from the lot and was turning away to
find the shopkeeper, when the Englishman spoke. He was lean,
distinguished-looking, though quite young, and had that well-tubbed
appearance which I am convinced is the great factor that has enabled
the English to assert their authority over colonies like Egypt and
India, where men are not so thoroughly bathed.

"Er--if you'll pardon me, old chap," he said. "Not that stick--if
you don't mind my saying so. It's not tough enough for mountain
work. I would suggest--"

To say that I was astonished is putting it mildly. If you know the
English at all, you know it is not their habit to address strangers,
even under the most pressing circumstances. Yet here was one of
that haughty race actually interfering in my selection of a stick.
I ended by buying the one he preferred, and he strolled along with
me in the direction of my hotel, chatting meantime in a fashion
far from British.

We stopped at the Kursaal, where we listened to the music, had a
drink and threw away a few francs on the little horses. He came
with me to the veranda of my hotel. I was surprised, when he took