It doesn't stop anywhere."
"Does it GET anywhere?" I ask.
"Of course it gets somewhere," he replies indignantly. "It's an
express! Munich," he murmurs, tracing its course through the
timetable, "depart 2.15. First and second class only. Nuremberg?
No; it doesn't stop at Nuremberg. Wurtzburg? No. Frankfort for
Strasburg? No. Cologne, Antwerp, Calais? Well, where does it
stop? Confound it! it must stop somewhere. Berlin, Paris,
Brussels, Copenhagen? No. Upon my soul, this is another train that
does not go anywhere! It starts from Munich at 2.15, and that's
all. It doesn't do anything else."
It seems to be a habit of Munich trains to start off in this
purposeless way. Apparently, their sole object is to get away from
the town. They don't care where they go to; they don't care what
becomes of them, so long as they escape from Munich.
"For heaven's sake," they say to themselves, "let us get away from
this place. Don't let us bother about where we shall go; we can
decide that when we are once fairly outside. Let's get out of
Munich; that's the great thing."
B. begins to grow quite frightened. He says:
"We shall never be able to leave this city. There are no trains out
of Munich at all. It's a plot to keep us here, that's what it is.
We shall never be able to get away. We shall never see dear old
England again!"
I try to cheer him up by suggesting that perhaps it is the custom in
Bavaria to leave the destination of the train to the taste and fancy
of the passengers.
