Peter made a horrible hash of it.  He tried to find a seat with all his goods in his hands, not realising that they might have been deposited anywhere in the train, and found when it had started, since, owing to a particular dispensation of the high gods, everything that passed the barrier for France got there.  He made a dive for one place and sat in it, never noting a thin stick in the corner, and he cleared out with enormous apologies when a perfectly groomed Major with an exceedingly pleasant manner mentioned that it was his seat, and carefully put the stick elsewhere as soon as Peter had gone.  Finally, at the end of a carriage, he descried a small door half open, and inside what looked like an empty seat.  He pulled it open, and discovered a small, select compartment with a centre table and three men about it, all making themselves very comfortable.

“I beg your pardon,” said Peter, “but is there a place vacant for one?”

The three eyed him stonily, and he knew instinctively that he was again a fresher calling on the second year.  One, a Captain, raised his head to look at him better.  He was a man of light hair and blue, alert eyes, wearing a cap that, while not looking dissipated, somehow conveyed the impression that its owner knew all about things—­a cap, too, that carried the Springbok device.  The lean face, with its humorous mouth, regarded Peter and took him all in:  his vast expanse of collar, the wide black edging to his shoulder-straps, his brand-new badges, his black buttons and stars.  Then he lied remorselessly: 

“Sorry, padre; we’re full up.”

Peter backed out and forgot to close the door, for at that moment a shrill whistle was excruciatingly blown.  He found himself in the very cab of the Pullman with the glass door before him, through which could be seen a sudden bustle.  Subalterns hastened forward from the more or less secluded spots that they had found, with a vision of skirts and hats behind them; an inspector passed aggressively along; and—­thanks to those high gods—­Peter observed the hurrying hotel porter at that moment.  In sixty seconds the door had been jerked open; a gladstone, a suit-case, and a kit-bag shot at him; largesse had changed hands; the door had shut again; the train had groaned and started; and Peter was off to France.

It was with mixed feelings that he groped for his luggage.  He was conscious of wanting a seat and a breakfast; he was also conscious of wanting to look at the station he was leaving, which he dimly felt he might never see again; and he was, above all, conscious that he looked a fool and would like not to.  In such a turmoil he lugged at the gladstone and got it into a corner, and then turned to the window in the cleared space with a determination.  In turning he caught the Captain’s face stuck round the little door.  It was withdrawn at once, but came out again, and he heard for the second time the unfamiliar title: