The smile over, he opened a book about the size of an atlas, dipped a
pen in an inkstand, recorded my point of departure--Cologne, and my
point of arrival--Paris; dried the inscription with a pinch of black
sand filched from a saucer--same old black sand used in the last
century--cut a section of the page with a pair of shears, tossed the
coin in the air, listened to its ring on the desk with a satisfied look,
slipped the whole twenty-franc piece into his pocket--regular fare,
fifteen francs, irregular swindle, five francs--and handed me the
billet. Then he added, with a trace of humor in his voice:
"If Monsieur the Director of the Circus comes now he will go in the
special car."
I examined the billet. I had Compartment Number Four, upper berth, Car
312.
I lighted a cigarette, gave my small luggage-checks to a porter with
directions to deposit my traps in my berth when the train was ready--the
company's office was in the depot--and strolled out to look at
the station.
You know the Cologne station, of course.
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