Commercial-room—The bagman’s tale—Yes—Strange company.

When driving the coaches in the olden time, it frequently happened that I remained for the night at the stage from which I should take the coach back on the following day. On one of these occasions I accidentally spent the evening in the commercial-room at ——. I say “accidentally,” because in all provincial hotels the bagman’s room is considered sacred to commercial travellers, and I have been informed by landlords that any intrusion upon them would prove dangerous to the house’s popularity. I had dined early, and, unaware of the trespass, happened to look into a long, dreary, deserted room, with “Coffee-room” written upon the door; a stale number of “The Illustrated News” and a well-thumbed Post Office Directory upon the table; a very bad fire, and altogether the air of a methodist meeting-house on a weekday. I turned to another room, in which were three or four gentlemen, who appeared to be surrounded by every comfort; coats, hats, wrappers, hung in clusters against the wall, and a cheerful fire.

A stout round-faced man, much marked by smallpox, dressed in a suit of tweed dittos, with an elaborate pin in his necktie resembling the dial of a good-sized watch, appeared to be the senior officer or “boss” of the party, as much in manner and bearing as he was in size. Addressing a small-featured, light-haired, thin young man, dressed in black-silk waistcoat, he said in a stentorian voice: “Have you done floating here, Mr. Ruffins?”

“No, Mr. Staines; I’ve not done yet. I’ve quoted twice. My people won’t let me sink.”

A third party, an older man, attired in gray, with hair to match, was busily engaged at one end of the room packing a quantity of small cases into a larger one, and continuing to hold converse with himself by means of the monosyllable “yes,” differently intonated, at intervals of half-a-minute, “y-e-s—y-e-s.”

Having finished his packing, he advanced slowly towards me, and, scanning me from head to foot, resumed his affirmative expression, but at longer intervals.

“Been round this way before—y-e-s? Bulk or samples—yes?”

In answer to his first question I informed him that I was no stranger to the place, to which he replied: “Yes.”

Desks were now locked and stowed away. The table having been cleared, the stout man advanced, stirred the fire, and rang the bell.

“Give your orders, gents. I am going to stand glasses round, for a slice of luck I’ve experienced to-day. I call it luck, though it was no more than common honesty. But I was lucky in meeting an honest man instead of a rogue. When I was on this circuit six months ago I was settling a small account with one of my clients, taking a receipt for the amount, four pounds seventeen shillings. I inadvertently handed him a cheque for seventeen pounds, saying to the clerk to whom I paid it: ‘You may keep the balance.’ The other cheque having been paid in in due course, I was quite ignorant of the error I had made; until, on meeting the party to whom I paid it, in the street this morning, although now thrown out of employ, he handed me twelve pounds three shillings, the balance of my cheque, which I thought had been drawn for five pounds.”

“One bottom of brandy and two whiskies, with hot water.”

“Draw round to the fire, sir,” he continued. “Though we have not met before we may often meet again. We travellers do run against each other in strange ways.” (Here the gray old man groaned out another “Y-e-s.”) “The commercial interest of this great country is entirely in our hands, and if we don’t take care of ourselves it is our own fault.”

The smoking tumblers having been supplied, and the party seated round the fire, the conversation became gradually more brisk, chiefly led by the man in gray, whose opinion on all points seemed absolute.

I was a tacit listener, understanding very little of that part of the conversation which related to business, viz.: “Quoting 7-18ths at 223 and sliding 347 and 19 net;” but at length anecdotes and experience took the place of business, and proved intensely amusing.

I should have enjoyed the occasion if I could have divested myself of the idea that, as regards my vocation, I was an impostor, with no right to be there.

It was evident that the gray man of the “yes” had his suspicions as to my not being a member of the craft.

Many glances he directed at me, each accompanied by a muttered “yes.” All doubts upon the subject were at length dispelled by a question from the little man in the black-silk waistcoat, Mr. Ruffins, who abruptly inquired:

“What is your route from here? Who are your clients?”

“I am not here,” I replied, “on any particular business, and, to own the truth, gentlemen, I doubt if I have any in this room.”

“Excuse me, sir, did I not see you on the coach this morning?”

“I came by the coach, and shall return with it to-morrow.”

“Then we shall be fellow-travellers. I leave my trap here, and return to —— by the coach.”

The gray man now commenced an anecdote, which I shall give in his own words.

“It was in the winter of 1855. I was on the northern circuit, in the midst of a terrific snowfall which buried everything.

”At dusk one evening the wind rose and caused the snow to drift in heaps so quickly that I lost the road. My horse became frightened, and I could scarcely induce him to proceed. I did, however, force him on till I came to a small roadside inn, at which the mail changed.

“Here I determined to leave my horse and trap and proceed by the coach. It was a fearful night, snow falling thickly, icy cold, and the roads almost impassable. The mail was three hours late, and when it did arrive there was question of the advisability of proceeding farther. I found at the inn a traveller who was storm-staid, and, whilst waiting in the bar-parlour for the arrival of the mail, displayed the most marked impatience, constantly breaking out into ejaculations.

”‘Oh dear, oh dear! what a disappointment! But if I can’t get there I can’t. Never was late before—such a lot of people too.’

“I tried in vain to reconcile him to the delay. He could do nothing but lament the accident which seemed likely to prevent his keeping his appointment at Durham on the following day.

”As we became more intimate I condoled with him, hinting that such anxiety led me to fear that it was a matter of life and death.

“‘It is a matter of life and death,’ he exclaimed. ‘If I can’t get there in time, I shall be ready to hang myself.’

“Time wore on. The mail at length drew up, making that peculiar squeaking noise through the deep snow which indicates the heaviest draught for the horses, which were sobbing and sweating, the wet pouring in streams from their sides; the delay having been caused by the coach having got into a drift, from which it had been with difficulty extricated by a plough-team.

”The change being effected, we took our places inside, and, travelling under great difficulty, we jogged on; the guard occasionally getting down to feel for the road with a stick.

“I sympathised with my fellow-traveller, and encouraged him by expressing my conviction that we should arrive at Durham at four A.M., instead of the usual hour, eleven P.M.; but it proved difficult to reconcile him even to this delay.

”Thus we passed hour after hour; the wheels of the mail groaning and squeaking through the drifted snow, and the horses frequently brought to a walk. By dint of perseverance, however, and the pluck of the coachman, we did arrive at Durham at half-past four A.M., five hours late. When we alighted at the Crown I was surprised to find that my fellow-traveller appeared to excite in the night-porter a sneer of disgust. Turning his whole attention to my luggage, he allowed the man to snatch up his own valise and depart.

“‘Nice company you’ve got into,’ growled boots.

“‘Doesn’t he stop here?’ I asked.

“‘Thank you, we don’t accommodate gentlemen of his profession. They make room for him when they want him at the county gaol.’

“‘Who and what is he?’

“‘Why, don’t you know him? That’s the hangman; and he brings that there trunk with him to take away his perquisites, which is the wearing apparel of the poor wretch he’s a-going to swing off at eight o’clock this morning; and the mail being so late, he has only just saved his bacon this journey.’”

Having finished his tale, the gray man looked hard at me, and again uttered his favourite “Y-e-s,” which this time I was half inclined to interpret into a warning to his friend that, whilst encouraging outsiders in the bagman’s room, they might be entertaining an executioner unawares.

Travelling by public conveyances naturally leads to strange rencounters. It has often happened that wealth has been acquired, lost friends restored, estates bought and sold, etc., entirely through accidental meetings on the road. Men without heirs have been known in many instances to adopt a fellow-traveller, either from the fact of finding a person possessing the same name, or from some trifling civility or sacrifice being made in their favour by a stranger during a long and perhaps irksome journey.

There is no doubt people became acquainted, as a general rule, and shook off the rigid forms of etiquette—so essentially English—much more readily during the days of the coach travelling than now; but on the other hand, one may escape more quickly from objectionable fellow-travellers, from whom in the coaching days there was no escape till the end of the journey.

This inconvenience was more felt on the Continent than in England, where the passengers were divided into three lots, or compartments—front, back, and inside; whereas the interior of the diligence, carrying ten persons, contained barely room for each person to sit upright.

I was once returning from Madrid to Paris, after having accomplished a riding tour through Spain, visiting most of the principal towns. On quitting Madrid I rode to Bayonne, where, my horse having a bad sore back, I left him, and proceeded by diligence.

Some consternation was caused on our arrival at the hotel at Bayonne by the mispronunciation of one of my travelling companions.

We had lived very sparely during our riding tour, oil and garlic predominating to such a degree in all the second-class “fondas” in Spain, as to prevent an English palate taking food, except he cooked it himself. As we were a party of three, this difficulty was easily got over by our taking it in turns to make the omelettes, or spatchcock a fowl at our different halting-places. This sort of diet had naturally sharpened our appetites, and even the “sniff” of a real French dinner made us ravenous. Influenced by this feeling, Colonel C——ll, addressing our hostess of The HÔtel de France, exclaimed: “Avez-vous assez, madame, parce-que j’ai beaucoup de femmes?”

The poor woman looked thunderstruck.

“Mais, monsieur, vous m’avez rien dit de Ça! OÙ sont-elles donc ces dames?”

I need not say that her notion that the colonel was a Turkish pasha, travelling with his harem, was soon dispelled when we took our places at the table-d’hÔte en garÇon.