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There was an awfully rum lot of chaps in our carriage between Calais and Paris. You’d have thought they had never seen a pair of bags before in their life; for they stared at mine all the way from Calais to Amiens, where we got out for refreshment. I thought it best to take my bags with me to the buffet, as they might have humbugged about with them if I’d left them in the carriage.

They ought to make English compulsory in French schools. The duffers in the buffet didn’t even know what a dough-nut was! Not even when Jim looked it up in the dixy and asked for noix a pate. The idiot asked us if we meant “rosbif,” or “biftik,” or “palal”–that’s all the English they seemed to know, and think English fellows feed off nothing else. However, we did get some grub, and paid for it too. When we got back to the carriage I took the precaution of sticking my bags on the rack above Jim’s head; so all the fellows stared at him the rest of the way, and I got a stunning sleep.

We had an awful doing, as Bunker would call it–by the way, did he pull off his tennis match against Turner on breaking-up day?–when we got to Paris. The row at Holborn was a fool to it. Just fancy, they made Jim and me open both our portmanteaux and hat-boxes before they would let us leave the station! I can tell you, old man, I’m scarcely cool yet after that disturbance, and if it hadn’t been for Jim I guess they’d have found out how a “Rug” can kick out! Jim says it’s the regular thing, and they collar all the cigars they can find. All I can say is, it’s robbery and cool cheek, and I wish you or some of the fellows would write to the Times or the Boy’s Own Paper and get it stopped. We had to turn every blessed thing out on the counter, and pack up again afterwards. It’s a marvel to me how the mater stowed all the things away. I couldn’t get half of them back, and had to shove the rest into my rug and tie it up at the corners like a washerwoman’s bundle. Jim’s too easy-going by half. I’m certain, if he’d backed me up, we could have hacked over the lot of them; and I shouldn’t have lost that spare pair of bags, which I forgot all about in the shindy. I hope there’ll be a war with France soon. We were jolly fagged when we got to the inn, I can tell you. The old woman had got the pater’s letter, so she expected us. She’s rather an ass, and must have been getting up her English for our benefit, for she’s called us “nice young Englese gentilman” about a hundred times already.

I don’t think Jim’s got over the blues he had watching the English coast yesterday. He’s asleep still, so I’m writing this while I’m waiting for him to come to breakfast. I shall not wait much longer, I can tell you. Ta-ta! Remember me to any of the old crowd you see; also to your young sister.

Yours truly, Thomas Hooker.

P.S.–By the way, see what your French dixy says for doughnut, and let me know by return. We’re going on to Switzerland in a day or two.

Paris, August 6.

Dear Gus,–The dictionary word of yours won’t wash here. We’ve tried it all round Paris, and you might as well talk Greek to them. I don’t believe there’s any word in the language for dough-nut. Jim’s not bad at French, either. We should be regularly floored if it wasn’t for him. And I expect they guess by his accent he comes from Rugby, for fellows all touch their hats to him.