I have only two companions—the one a good-natured-looking, middle-aged gentleman with a mild benevolent expression, strangely at variance with the nervous restlessness of his eyes; the other a grim taciturn man, who has been absorbed in his paper ever since the train left Edinburgh en route for the South. They had got in together, and were evidently travelling companions. Rather a queerly assorted couple; for from their dress and general appearance there could be no doubt but that their stations in life were widely apart. What could they be? Master and servant? Evidently not; for the humbler of the two seemed to have control of all their travelling arrangements. A detective and his prisoner? I think not; for the one looks too much at ease to have a troubled conscience; and the other, though evidently in command, treats his companion with more deference than is compatible with the conscious power of a captor.

My speculations on this point have filled up a gap in the journey. Having read all the war telegrams in the morning paper, which I know I will find contradicted in the evening editions when I reach London; and having watched the telegraph wires gliding up and down beside the carriage-window, anon disappearing suddenly into space, only to reappear as suddenly to continue their monotonous up-and-down motion, I am beginning to weary of this, and if neither of my companions volunteers a remark, I must do something to force a conversation.

We are past Dunbar by this time, and are fast approaching Berwick. I have been vainly trying to catch the restless eyes of my apparently more companionable companion. He is now closing them, and evidently settling down for a quiet nap. My more taciturn friend has never taken his attention off his paper; he must either be a very slow reader, or having exhausted the news, he must have fallen on the advertisements. I offer him my paper. He takes it with a bow, giving me his own in exchange—The Banffshire Gazette. No news to be got out of that after having exhausted The Scotsman. I am soon reduced to the births, marriages, and deaths. Much interested to know that the wife of Hugh Macdonald stone-mason has presented him with a son; also to hear that Mrs M‘Queen is dead; and the nursery rhyme I sometimes hear my wife repeating to our boys occurs to me, and I mentally inquire, ‘How did she die?’ The announcement does not, however, enlighten me on that point; though it is easy to guess, seeing that it contains the further information that she departed this life at one hundred and one years of age, and is deeply regretted. The latter assertion I fear is only a conventional fib, for I find in a paragraph announcing her death as a local centenarian, that she had great possessions, which have fallen to her nearest surviving relative, a great-grand-nephew.

My friend opposite is fairly off to sleep. Quite clear that he has nothing on his conscience. The other is as deep in The Scotsman as he was erewhile in his own paper. I can’t stand this any longer. Talk I must. The Banffshire Gazette is published in the county town bearing the same name; so I see my way to an opening.

‘You come from Banff, I presume? You must have been travelling all night? No wonder our friend here is worn out.’

‘We have come from Banff,’ replies my friend, with no trace of the churl in his voice or manner that his appearance would lead me to expect. ‘We have come from Banff; but we have not travelled all night. Our governor makes it a point never to over-fatigue any of his patients. It’s part of his system; so we broke our journey at Edinburgh.’

His patients! I would as soon have suspected my opposite neighbour of being a criminal as an invalid.

‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘Might I inquire what is his complaint?’

My taciturn friend touches his head in a mysterious way, and I am just in time to stop a low whistle indicative of surprise, and to turn it into another ‘Indeed.’

‘What particular form does his—ahem—complaint take?’

I am beginning to hope he is not violent.

‘Generosity.’

‘Generosity?’

‘Yes, sir. You see he gets all sorts of schemes into his head for the relief of suffering of all kinds; and his friends, fearing he might make ducks and drakes of his money, have put him under the care of our governor.’

‘Is he wealthy?’

‘Very.’

‘Are his friends quite disinterested?’

‘Well, I don’t know. But at anyrate they are quite right. He might fall into the hands of unprincipled people, who would help out his schemes to further their own.’

‘What is his latest plan?’

‘Well, sir, his last idea was, that ambitious people who had failed in their aims—such as authors whose books were roughly handled by the critics, artists whose works did not meet with the appreciation they expected, actors whose genius was not universally recognised, and suchlike—were a great bore to society, and in their turn were inclined to shun the world; so he proposed building a retreat where all such could retire to seclusion—a kind of Agapemone, you see, sir.’

‘If he had found a scanty population for his rural settlement, it would nevertheless not be for the lack of such people.’

‘Just so, sir.’

‘Do you consider his a hopeless case?’

‘I fear so, sir. He’s one of the quiet sort, you see. More violent cases are often easier to deal with. Our governor turned out a rare wild one quite cured the other day.’

‘What was his treatment?’

‘Letting him have his own way. It’s part of our governor’s system; but it was rather risky in this case.’

I feel interested, and I intimate as much.

‘Well, sir, Captain B—— had been down with the yellow fever in the West Indies, and it was such a severe attack that the doctors gave him up as a bad job, and handed him over to the black nurses to do what they could for him. They pulled him through, but with such strong doses of quinine, that before he was convalescent his reason was gone. His was suicidal mania—about the worst kind we have to do with, for the patient always has his victim handy if he can only get the means. They had a rare job to get him over to England; and when he was first put under the governor’s care, he was about the worst case we had. The governor studied him carefully, and found that letting him have his own way was the only thing that did him any good. He was very fond of bathing; and by-and-by, when he began to mend a little, he was allowed to go to a river near our place. Of course I always went too, and kept a pretty sharp eye on him. However, this did not suit him; so one day he goes to the governor and says: “Dr ——, it is not congenial to my feelings as a gentleman, always to have that fellow with me when I take my bath; I would much prefer privacy.” The governor tried to put him off; but the contradiction had a bad effect on him. Now one of the governor’s theories is, that at a certain stage of the complaint, if you can humour patients, they have every chance of recovery; cross them, and it is gone. “Captain B——,” says he, “I know that if you pass your word to me, you will keep it like a man of honour; so if you will give me your word as an officer and gentleman that if I let you go alone you will return to me in an hour and report yourself, I will let you go.” Captain B—— gave his word as required, and every day he used to do the same, always coming to give his word of honour, and returning each day to report himself, proud of being trusted. It was rather risky treatment for a suicidal patient, but it succeeded. He’s as well now, sir, as you or I.

‘There was another case we had, quite different’——

I have settled myself into a listening attitude; but my friend has suddenly ceased. Looking up, I find my opposite neighbour has just awakened; and his attendant having perhaps no other topic of conversation than his professional experiences, which he no doubt rightly considers an inappropriate subject to discuss before one of his charges, has relapsed to his perusal of The Scotsman, nor do I hear another word from him till he bids me good-day at York.

‘Grantham, Grantham!’

I have been following the example of the generous lunatic, and taking a nap which almost deserves the name of a sleep. I awake to the glorious conviction that I am nearing my journey’s end, and have unconsciously got over about one hundred miles of loneliness. I have still some hours before me yet, however, and seem doomed to perform that part of the journey solus. What shall I do to fill up the time? Happy thought! Smoke! But this is not a smoking compartment, and by-law No. 7 says ‘that any person smoking in any carriage other than a smoking carriage shall be liable to a penalty not exceeding forty shillings.’ Bother by-law No. 7!

I call the guard. The first-class smoking compartment is full. Well, what’s to be done? A small business transaction between the guard and myself; beginning with my hand in my pocket and ending with his in his; and he suggests that as I am all alone and by his favour likely to be so, I may as well smoke where I am. I light up amidst evident preparations for a start, and am quietly settling down to the enjoyment of my cigar when the door hurriedly opens and I have a companion—a man about my own height and age, altogether not very unlike me. (I am of that mediocre mould in which nature has formed so many of my fellow-creatures.)

I am to have a companion after all. Well, so much the better. It will be somebody to talk to and pass the time. I wonder if he is as taciturn as my companions at the outset of the journey. Evidently not; he is recovering his breath after his hurry, and is preparing to address me.

‘I’ll trouble you to put that cigar out, sir! I object to smoke.’

‘But, sir’——

‘Here, guard! Tell this person to put his cigar out at once. This is not a smoking compartment.’

‘Plenty of room in the next carriage, sir. Would you mind stepping in there?’

‘Yes; I would mind. By-law No. 7 says, &c. &c.,’ says my companion, standing blocking up the doorway and arguing with the guard.

‘Very sorry, sir; but you must put out your cigar.’

‘Can’t I go into the next carriage?’

‘Two ladies in there, sir—old ladies!’

‘Have you any empty compartment?’

‘We’re just off, sir,’ says the guard, slamming to the door, and the next minute we are spinning on our way to Peterborough.

Shall I put out my cigar? I have been alluded to as a ‘person.’ I have been addressed in a dictatorial manner, which has the very reverse of a soothing influence on me. I feel ruffled and obstinate. Had I been asked politely, my Havana had been out of the window in a twinkling. Shall I put it out or infringe by-law No. 7, and be fined forty shillings? I will finish my cigar, and abide by the consequences.

My companion is evidently as unaccustomed to opposition as I am to dictation, and for a few minutes he stares at me dumbfounded, then he lets fly his own version of King James’s Counterblast against Tobacco. On my part I preserve an obstinate silence. My companion pulls up the window on his side; I put up that on mine, which produces a violent fit of coughing on his part, when down go both windows in a hurry.

We have arrived at Peterborough, and the guard is again called. I have almost finished my cigar, and I throw the end away. My companion cannot let the matter rest, however, and when we are started again, he reads me another lecture, couched in such unacceptable terms that for reply I light another cigar.

‘Sir, here is my card; and I insist upon knowing your name and address.’

I take his card, open my card-case, put his card in, and return the case to my pocket without giving him my card in exchange. I finish my cigar amidst a volley of threats of getting my name and address by force.

We are at Finsbury Park now, and tickets are being collected. This is the nearest station to my home, and here I intend to leave the train. My companion follows me up the platform, and calls the guard to take my name and address. Being under the scrutiny of the other passengers, who evidently think I have got into trouble for card-sharping, and having made up my mind to pay the penalty, I lose no time in giving my card.

At home I am received with open arms, and I am hurried into the dining-room by my boys to inspect a device over the sideboard for my especial benefit—‘Welcome’ in blue letters on a white ground. My wife is full of inquiries after all our friends in Edinburgh, and what sort of a journey I have had.

Having informed her that individually and collectively all our friends are as well as could be expected, considering the wintry weather they have had, and that all were as kind and hospitable as ever, I briefly tell her of my smoking adventure.

‘And who was your companion?’ asks my wife.

‘How should I know?’

‘Why, you have his card.’

‘To be sure; I quite forgot that,’ say I, producing my card-case. I search it through carefully, but no card, other than my own, can I find.

‘I know I put it in here. Why, bless me! I must have given it to the guard instead of my own. How odd!’

I have almost dismissed the adventure from my mind, when a few days later my wife, in skimming over the paper at the breakfast-table, breaks out into a merry laugh. What on earth can she find so amusing in any other than the ‘Agony’ column? which I can see is not the portion under perusal. It is the police reports, and she hands me the paper, pointing out the place for my attention.

‘At the —— Police Court, J—— B—— of Verandah House, Crouch Hill, was summoned by the Great Northern Railway Company for smoking in a carriage not a smoking carriage, to the annoyance of other passengers. The guard having proved identity, and the accused’s card, given up by himself, being put in as corroborative evidence, the magistrate asked the defendant if he had anything to say in reply. An attempt was made to prove that the accused was really the complainant, and that he had given the card produced to the real offender; which the magistrate characterised as an impudently lame defence, and fined the defendant in the full penalty of forty shillings.’

‘My dear,’ says my wife.

‘Well, my dear?’ I respond.

‘Verandah House is that pretty place that has just been finished a little farther up the hill. Don’t you think that you behaved in rather an unneighbourly manner?’

‘Did our neighbour behave any better?’

‘At all events he has suffered unjustly. This cannot be allowed to pass. Don’t you think you had better call and apologise?’

‘Well, I’ll think about it.’

On my way home from the station that evening I rang the visitor’s bell at Verandah House, and was in due course ushered into the presence of the eccentric proprietor. Our recognition was mutual; and as my neighbour approached me, I prepared to put myself in a defensive attitude. His hand, however, was not extended to commit an assault, and before I could stammer out the elaborate apology I had prepared, I was forestalled by a hearty shake of the hand and an apology from the quondam fire-eater!

Under such circumstances it may easily be guessed that a satisfactory understanding was soon arrived at, and an exchange of invitations to spend the remainder of the evening in each other’s society ended in my returning home with my neighbour as my guest. I am very partial to an after-dinner cigar. Having already committed myself, however, I determined to practise a little self-denial; but what was my surprise, when I had carried off my neighbour to my study to shew him a few rare volumes of which I am almost as proud as I am of my children, to see my friend produce a cigar-case, and not only offer me the means of indulging my favourite weakness, but himself preparing to join in it.

‘You may well look surprised,’ said he; ‘but in truth I am an inveterate smoker. I passed many years of my life in Havana, and these cigars—which I venture to say you will find remarkably good—are of my own importing.’

‘But you expressed such contrary opinions the other day.’

‘The fact is, that when in the West Indies I suffered from a severe attack of yellow fever, and the remedial appliances so affected my mind that for some time I had to be placed under restraint. Thanks to the skill of a clever practitioner, I am cured; but my old malady still shews itself in occasional fits of uncontrollable obstinacy.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ say I; ‘but are you not a military man?’

‘Yes; I was captain in the ——th Regiment.’

Captain B——! My mind reverts to the story I had heard on the morning of our first meeting. But was our friend as thoroughly cured as his ex-keeper seemed to imagine? I can’t say, but I know that he is an excellent neighbour. He treats his misadventure as a capital joke; and it is likely to be a stock story for the rest of his life how he was fined forty shillings by the railway company, because another passenger had infringed by-law No. 7!