What nerve! What fantasy! At the sight of these markings, Szygon frequently had the urge to tear them off and replace them with a likeness of a dog chasing its own tail….

His cigar glowed peacefully, filling the compartment with small clouds of bluish smoke. Little by little the fingers holding the cigar loosened lazily and the fragrant Trabuco rolled under the seat, spattering a rocket of tiny sparks. Szygon fell asleep….

A fresh release of steam in the pipes lisped quietly under his feet, spreading a pleasant, cozy warmth about the compartment. A mosquito, unusual for the season, hummed a faint song, made a few nervous circles, and hid itself in a dark recess among plush protuberances. And once again there was only the gentle flicker of the gas-burner and the rhythmic clatter of wheels….

At some time during the night Szygon awoke. He rubbed his forehead, changed his sleeping position, and glanced about the compartment. To his surprise and displeasure he noticed that he was not alone: he had a travelling companion. Opposite him, spread out comfortably on the cushions, sat a railway official puffing on a cigarette and impertinently exhaling the smoke in his direction. Beneath this person’s neglectfully unbuttoned jacket Szygon could see a velvet vest, and he was reminded of a certain stationmaster with whom he once had a fiery row. The railway official had, however, a familiar blood-red kerchief wrapped around his neck, just under a stiff collar with three stars and several winged circles, and this reminded Szygon of the insolent conductor who had irritated him earlier with his little smile.

‘What the devil?!’ he thought, carefully looking at the intruder’s physiognomy. ‘Why, quite clearly it’s the loathsome face of that conductor! The same emaciated, sunken cheeks, the same smallpox marks. But how did he get that rank and uniform?’

Meanwhile the ‘intruder’ apparently noticed the interest of his fellow traveller. He let out a cone of smoke and, after lightly brushing ashes from his sleeve, put his hand to the peak of his cap and greeted him with a very sweet smile.

‘Good evening!’

‘Good evening,’ Szygon answered dryly.

‘Have you been travelling far?’

‘At the moment I’m not in a social mood. I generally like to travel in silence. That’s why I usually choose a solitary compartment and pay a hefty gratuity for the pleasure.’

Undeterred by the blunt retort, the railwayman smiled delightfully and continued with great composure:

‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll slowly acquire the verve for speaking. It’s just a question of practice and habit. Solitude is, as is known, a bad companion. Man is a social animal—zoon politikon—isn’t that true?’

‘If you want to consider yourself an animal, I personally have nothing against it. I am just a man.’

‘Excellent!’ the official pronounced. ‘See how your tongue has loosened. It’s not as bad as it seems. On the contrary, you possess a great talent for conversation, particularly in the direction of parrying questions. We’ll slowly improve. Yes, yes,’ he added patronizingly, ‘somehow we’ll make a go of it; somehow.’

Szygon squinted his eyes suspiciously and studied the intruder.

After a moment of silence, the persistent railwayman continued: ‘Unless I’m mistaken we are old acquaintances.