Summary

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

I am famished; to distract myself, I peer through the door, whence I can discern the messy vista of the railway-station in the rain; it's lucky I do so; for there I behold my own portmanteau, with its huge purple stripe, being hauled away on the back of a railway-man, followed by an alien Hôtel Porter, not mine, doing nothing: they are always doing nothing.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

I had registered my traps myself, and was looking out for some one to carry them to the den in which you are penned till the train arrives, when, lo! the chucker-out! smiling and bowing as if he had never seen me before—"Is better I retchistar de loggosh, Sar; pity shentlemans like you, Sar, retchistar de loggosh."
I turn on my heel with an imprecation which "Ingleese-spikers" understand. But he still waits there, smiling, and expecting to be tipped, Let him wait. So much for the Omnibus-Porter—at once the Gamp and Undertaker of my Grand Hôtel existence.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

Drenched and gasping, I find myself once more outside; the Porter of the Grand Hôtel Du Lac is at my heels, furious and impertinent. "Dis, not your loggosh: other shentleman's loggosh." He seized the portmanteau, and a struggle would certainly have ensued, when my own Hôtel Porter appeared on the scene triumphant, with a regiment of station-men carrying one small tin box. "What you do, Sar; see here, your loggosh!" The tin box belonged to a commercial-traveller, who was bound for the Hôtel Du Lac.
Source: Gutenberg

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