In the
same carriage with us was a gentleman of some standing in the country,
and in a fit of absent-mindedness I made a little sketch of him. I
had just completed it when an arm reached down over my shoulder from
behind and the picture was snatched away by the observant guard of the
train and taken off to be used as evidence against me.
The guard of a train in this country, I may say, ranks apparently much
the same as a colonel in the army, and therefore is not a man to be
trifled with. On our arrival at the terminus we found a sort of guard
of honour of gendarmes waiting for us on the platform, and we were
promptly marched off to the police office to account for our procedure
in the train by daring to open the window when the guard wished it
closed, and for drawing caricatures of a "high-born" man in the train.
We made no secret as to our identity and handed our cards to the
commissary of police when we were brought up before him. He was--till
that moment--glaring at us fiercely, evidently deciding what
punishment to give us before he had heard our case at all. But when
he saw my brother's name as an officer in the Guards, he asked: "Does
this mean in the Guards of her Majesty Queen Victoria?" When he heard
it was so his whole demeanour changed. He sprang from his seat, begged
us to be seated, and explained it was all a mistake. Evidently Guards
in his country were in very high repute.
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