PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

June 4, 1892.

LOST LUGGAGE.

(Or the Experiences of a "Vacuus Viator.")

At the Douane, Ostend.—Just off Princesse Henriette; passengers hovering about excitedly with bunches of keys, waiting for their luggage to be brought ashore. Why can't they take things quietly—like me? I don't worry. Saw my portmanteau and bag labelled at Victoria. Sure to turn up in due time. Some men when they travel insist on taking hand-bags into the carriage with them—foolish, when they might have them put in the van and get rid of all responsibility. The douaniers are examining the luggage—don't see mine—as yet. It's all right, of course. People who are going on to Brussels and Antwerp at once would naturally have their luggage brought out first. Don't see the good of rushing about like that myself. I shall stay the night here—put up at one of the hotels on the Digue, dine, and get through the evening pleasantly at the Kursaal—sure to be something going on. Then I can go comfortably on by a mid-day train to-morrow. Meanwhile my luggage still tarries. If I was a nervous man—luckily I'm not. Come—that's the bag at all events, with everything I shall want for the night.... Annoying. Some other fellow's bag.... No more luggage being brought out. Getting anxious—at least, just a shade uneasy. Perhaps if I asked somebody—Accost a Belgian porter; he wants my baggage ticket. They never gave me any ticket. It did occur to me (in the train) that I had always had my luggage registered on going abroad before, but I supposed they knew best, and didn't worry. I came away to get a rest and avoid worry, and I won't worry.... The Porter and I have gone on board to hunt for the things. They aren't there. Left behind at Dover probably. Wire for them at once. No idea how difficult it was to describe luggage vividly and yet economically till I tried. However, it will be sent on by the next boat, and arrive some time in the evening, so it's of no consequence. Now for the Hotel. Ask for the bus for the Continental. The Continental is not open yet. Very well, the Hôtel de la Plage, then. Closed! All the hotels facing the sea are, it seems. Sympathetic Porter recommends one in the town, and promises to come and tell me as soon as the luggage turns up.

"Please, de tings!"

At the Hotel.—Find, on getting out of the omnibus, that the Hotel is being painted; entrance blocked by ladders and pails. Squeeze past, and am received in the hall by the Proprietress and a German Waiter. "Certainly they can give me a room—my baggage shall be taken up immed—" Here I have to explain that this is impracticable, as my baggage has unfortunately been left behind. Think I see a change in their manner at this. A stranger who comes abroad with nothing but a stick and an umbrella cannot expect to inspire confidence, I suppose. I remark to the Waiter that the luggage is sure to follow me by the next boat, but it strikes even myself that I do not bring this out with quite a sincere ring. Not at all the manner of a man who possesses a real portmanteau. I order dinner—the kind of dinner, I feel, that a man who did not intend to pay for it would order. I detect this impression in the Waiter's eye. If he dared, I know he would suggest tea and a boiled egg as more seemly under the circumstances.

On the Digue.—Thought, it being holiday time, that there would be more gaiety; but Ostend just now perhaps a little lacking in liveliness—hotels, villas, and even the Kursaal all closely boarded up with lead-coloured shutters. Only other person on Promenade a fisher-boy scrooping over the tiles in sabots. I come to a glazed shelter, and find the seats choked with drifting sand, and protected with barbed wire. This depresses me. I did not want to sit down—but the barbed wire does seem needlessly unkind. Walk along the sand-dunes; must pass the time somehow till dinner, and the arrival of my luggage. Wonder whether it really was labelled "Ostend." Suppose the porter thought I said "Rochester" ... in that case—I will not worry about it like this. I will go back and see the town.

I have; it is like a good many other foreign towns. I am melancholy. I can't dismiss that miserable luggage from my mind. To be alone in a foreign land, without so much as a clean sock, is a distressing position for a sensitive person. If I could only succeed in seeing a humorous element in it, it would be something—but I can't. It is too forlorn to be at all funny. And there is still an hour and a half to get through before dinner!

I have dined—in a small room, with a stove, a carved buffet, and a portrait of the King of the BELGIANS; but my spirits are still low. German Waiter dubious about me; reserving his opinion for the present. He comes in with a touch of new deference in his manner. "Please, a man from de shdation for you." I go out—to find the sympathetic Porter. My baggage has arrived? It has; it is at the Douane, waiting for me. I am saved! I tell the Waiter, without elation, but with what, I trust, is a calm dignity—the dignity of a man who has been misunderstood, but would scorn to resent it.

At the Station.—I have accompanied the Porter to the Terminus, such a pleasant helpful fellow, so intelligent! The Ostend streets much less dull at night. Feel relieved, in charity with all the world, now that my prodigal portmanteau is safely reclaimed. Porter takes me into a large luggage-room. Don't see my things just at first. "Your baggage—ere!" says the Porter, proudly, and points out a little drab valise with shiny black leather covers and brass studs—the kind of thing a man goes a journey with in a French Melodrama! He is quite hurt when I repudiate it indignantly; he tries to convince me that it is mine—the fool! There is no other baggage of any sort, and mine can't possibly arrive now before to-morrow afternoon, if then. Nothing for it but to go back, luggageless, to the Hotel—and face that confounded Waiter.

Walk about the streets. Somehow I don't feel quite up to going back to the Hotel just yet. The shops, which are small and rather dimly lighted, depress me. There is no theatre, nor café chantant open apparently. If there were, I haven't the heart for them to-night. Hear music from a small estaminet in a back street; female voice, with fine Cockney accent, is singing "Oh, dem Golden Slippers!" Wonder where my slippers are!

In my Bedroom.—I have had to come back at last, and get it over with the Waiter. If he felt any surprise, I think it was to see me back at all. I have had to ask him if he could get me some sleeping-things to pass the night in. And a piece of soap. Humiliating, but unavoidable. He promised, but he has not brought them. Probably this last request has done for me, and he is now communicating with the police....

A tap at my door. "Please, de tings!" says the Waiter. I have wronged him. He has brought me such a nightgown! Never saw anything in the least like it before. It has flowers embroidered all down the front and round the cuffs, and on every button something is worked in tiny blue letters, which, on inspection, turns out to be "Good-night." I don't quite know why, but, in my present state, I find this strangely consoling, and even touching—like a benediction. After all, he must believe in me, or he would