A month ago I was in Interlaken. One evening after dinner I strolled

along the main street, where all the hotels and shops are drawn up at

attention before the lovely mountain. In front of one of the shops I saw

a collection of walking sticks and, since I needed one for climbing, I

paused to look them over. I had been at this only a moment when a young

Englishman stepped up and also began examining the sticks.

I had made a selection from the lot and was turning away to find

the shopkeeper, when the Englishman spoke. He was lean,

distinguished-looking, though quite young, and had that well-tubbed

appearance which I am convinced is the great factor that has enabled the

English to assert their authority over colonies like Egypt and India,

where men are not so thoroughly bathed.

"Er--if you'll pardon me, old chap," he said. "Not that stick--if you

don't mind my saying so. It's not tough enough for mountain work. I

would suggest--"

To say that I was astonished is putting it mildly. If you know the

English at all, you know it is not their habit to address strangers,

even under the most pressing circumstances. Yet here was one of that

haughty race actually interfering in my selection of a stick. I ended

by buying the one he preferred, and he strolled along with me in the

direction of my hotel, chatting meantime in a fashion far from British.

We stopped at the Kursaal, where we listened to the music, had a drink

and threw away a few francs on the little horses. He came with me to the

veranda of my hotel. I was surprised, when he took his leave, to find

that he regarded me in the light of an old friend. He said he would call

on me the next morning.

I made up my mind that Archibald Enwright--for that, he told me, was

his name--was an adventurer down on his luck, who chose to forget

his British exclusiveness under the stern necessity of getting money

somehow, somewhere. The next day, I decided, I should be the victim of a

touch.

But my prediction failed; Enwright seemed to have plenty of money. On

that first evening I had mentioned to him that I expected shortly to be

in London, and he often referred to the fact. As the time approached

for me to leave Interlaken he began to throw out the suggestion that he

should like to have me meet some of his people in England. This, also,

was unheard of--against all precedent.

Nevertheless, when I said good-by to him he pressed into my hand a

letter of introduction to his cousin, Captain Stephen Fraser-Freer, of

the Twelfth Cavalry, Indian Army, who, he said, would be glad to make

me at home in London, where he was on furlough at the time--or would be

when I reached there.




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