“Are we not nearly to Scotland yet?” he inquired some fifty times.

" ’My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the dears!’ " hummed the abdicated nobleman, whose hilarity had actually increased (if that were possible) since his descent into the herd again.

All the travellers’ familiar landmarks were hailed by the gleeful diplomatist with encouraging comments.

“Ach, look!  Beauteeful view!  How quickly it is gone!  Hurray!  Ve must be nearly to Scotland.”

A panegyric on the rough sky-line of the north country fells was interrupted by the entrance of the dining-car attendant.  Learning that they would dine, he politely inquired in what names he should engage their seats.  Then, for an instant, a horrible confusion nearly overcame the Baron.  He—­a von Blitzenberg—­ to give a false name!  His color rose, he stammered, and only in the nick of time caught his companion’s eye.

“Ze Lord Tollyvoddle,” he announced, with an effort as heroic as any of his ancestors’ most warlike enterprises.

Too impressed to inquire how this remarkable title should be spelled, the man turned to the other distinguished-looking passenger.

“Bunker,” said that gentleman, with smiling assurance.

The man went out.

“Now are ve named!” cried the Baron, his courage rising the higher for the shock it had sustained.  “And you vunce more vill be Bonker?  Goot!”

“That satisfies you?”

The Baron hesitated.

“My dear friend, I have a splendid idea!  Do you know I did disgover zere used to be a nobleman in Austria really called Count Bonker?  He vas a famous man; you need not be ashamed to take his name.  Vy should not you be Count Bonker?”

“You prefer to travel in titled company?  Well, be hanged—­why not!  When one comes to think of it, it seems a pity that my sins should always be attributed to the middle classes.”

Accordingly this history has now the honorable task of chronicling the exploits of no fewer than two noblemen.

CHAPTER VII

Late that evening they reached a city which the home-coming chieftain in an outburst of Celtic fervor dubbed “mine own bonny Edinburg!” and there they repaired for the night to a hotel.  Once more the Baron (we may still style him so since the peerage of Tulliwuddle was of that standing also) showed a certain diffidence when it came to answering to his new title in public; but in the seclusion of their private sitting-room he was careful to assure his friend that this did not arise from any lack of nerve or qualms zof conscience, but merely through a species of headache—­the result of railway travelling.

“Do not fear for me,” he declared as he stirred the sugar in his glass, “I have ze heart of a lion.”

The liquid he was sipping being nothing less potent than a brew of whisky punch, which he had ordered (or rather requested Bunker to order) as the most romantically national compound he could think of, produced, indeed, a fervor of foolhardiness.  He insisted upon opening the door wide, and getting Bunker to address him as “Tollyvoddle,” in a strident voice, “so zat zey all may hear,” and then answering in a firm “Yes, Count Bonker, vat vould you say to me?”