But as the little chap seems keen enough already, I'll let that stand
over for the present. If at any time he wants an extra spur, it will
come in handy.

CHAPTER V.

WANTED, A PASSAGE.

It had been agreed that we were to start off next morning by the 7.10
train, and half an hour before that time saw me standing before the
Columbus statue in the Piazza Acquaverdi. Weems was such a mighty
squeamish little creature about the proprieties that I thought an old
dunnage-sack would scandalize him, and so had purchased a drab
portmanteau for my kit at the cost of half my remaining capital. I
intended to have no more breezes with him if it could be avoided.

The minute-hand of the clock above the central entrance of the station
crept up to the vertical, and began to droop. Cab after cab rolled up
over the flagstones and teemed out people and properties. Still my man
came not. He had distinctly said he would be in good time, as he had
baggage to be registered, and disliked being hurried. It began to look,
in spite of his bragging about never having overslept himself in his
life, as if he had been late in turning out.

The clock showed three minutes past the hour, and the big hand, being
on the down grade, began to race. I walked through the rank of waiting
cabs, and stood by the pillars of the central doorway. If we missed
this train we should lose a day. The 9.35 didn't go through, as we had
seen from the time-table overnight. It only landed one at Marseille.

The crowd of incoming people began to lessen, and finally ceased
altogether. The last passenger passed through on to the platform, and
the officials locked the waiting-room doors. We had missed that blessed
train.

I cursed Weems vigorously, and set off to Isotta's, where he was
staying, to beat him up, swinging the drab portmanteau in my fist, as I
didn't want to pay for leaving it, as somehow or other economy seemed
to me at that moment to be a strong line.

The Swiss day-porter was just coming down. He was a gorgeous personage
who could have saved the architect of Babel his great disappointment,
and at first he knew nothing of Mistaire Weem. Evidently the
schoolmaster had not been generous. So I inquired in the bureau for my
man's number, intending to beat up his room then and there, but was met
by the staggering announcement that the signor had cleared by the
Marseille train which left Genoa at 3.30 in the morning. But there was
a letter for me.

I