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_Culchard_. Abominably slow train, this _Schnell-zug_. I hope we shall
get to Nuremberg before it's too dark to see the general effect.
_Podbury_. We're not likely to be in time for _table d'hote_--not that
_I'm_ peckish. (_He sighs._) Wonder whereabouts the--the TROTTERS have
got to by now, eh?
[_He feels he is getting red, and hums the Garden Scene from
"Faust."_]
_Culch._ (_indifferently_). Oh, let me see--just arriving at St.
Moritz, I expect. Wonderful effect of colour, that is. [_He indicates
the West, where a bar of crimson is flaming between a belt of firs._
_Podb._ (_absently_). Oh, wonderful!--where? (_Hums a snatch of a
waltz._) Dum-dum-diddle-um-tum-dum-dum-dum-ty-doodle; dum-dum--I say,
_you_ don't seem particularly cut up?
_Culch._ Cut up? Why should I be cut up, my dear fellow?--about what?
[_Before PODBURY can explain, two Talkative British
Tourists tumble up into the compartment, and he has to
control his curiosity once more._
_First T.T._ Well, I 'ope we're all right _now_, SAM, I'm sure--these
German jokers have chivied us about enough for one journey! (_To
CULCHARD._) Not in your way, this 'at-box, Sir? Don't give yer much
space in these foreign trains. (_They settle down and the train
starts.
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