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52 DAYS IN THE SUN
oblige him to take a seat by all getting up themselves.
We feel a secret itch—we always do when we travel
on Spanish railroads—a longing for a row. And we
are a little ashamed afterwards of the strange stirring!
Every new passenger at once joins in the conversa-
tion,- which touches on all subjects twixt heaven and
earth except the lateness of trains, a matter which
concerns no one.
Finally the bell rings and the train rolls out of the
station. A man dashes over the platform, jumps on
to the train as it moves, and clings to the last car. He
climbs along the outside of the cars to the door of our
compartment, and enters. He is hot with rage at the
poorness of the service. Has it not always been
understood that this train was not to leave less than
an hour after its schedule? He shows us his steel
watch, gesticulates as he scolds, but the other passen-
gers give him tobacco and calm him with their good-
natured sly digs. Is he an Englishman then? Was his
father perhaps a watchmaker, that he should concern
himself so with minutes?
The compartments are separated from each other
only by low partitions open at the top. We can look
through the whole car. On the floor, and on some of
the seats, hand baggage has been piled to the ceiling:
bags and great sacks and rough blankets. Some of the
travelers have brought bed linen and great leather
wine-poyches and monstrous traveling bags; these are
the people bound for the northern provinces to look
for work. ‘They dress like Swedish peasants, in tight-
fitting jackets of black velvet, but they have sandals
woven of vine-tendrils on their feet and around their
necks huge folded blankets, which they pull forward as
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