I found Johnson was an American from a Western city named Chicago,
which I had heard of, and we "palled on." He was very fond of music,
and the band in the Kurpark was a good one, so we went there together
twice a day, and talked as we walked up and down the gravel paths. He
had been everywhere, and knew his way about; his conversation was
interesting. In about a week I had come to love Johnson, and I think he
rather liked me.

One day, as we returned together to the Hotel Post, he held out his
hand.

"I'm off to-morrow," he said; "off to Innsbruck. So I shall bid you
good-bye. I am very glad indeed to have met you."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." I replied. "But I won't say good-bye now,
I'll see you to the station to-morrow."

"No, don't do that. I shall be away before you are up. We'll say good-
bye here."

We did, and when I had breakfast next morning I found Johnson had left
by the early train. I wandered around the park that forenoon mourning
for Johnson. The place seemed lonely without him. In the afternoon I
explored some of the by-paths of the park within hearing distance of
the band, when suddenly, to my intense surprise, I met my departed
friend.

"Hello! Johnson," I cried, "I thought you left this morning."