In the morning the noisy one turned out to be an immensely fat German who rolled about the car as if it and the world outside belonged to him,--the repulsively over-bearing kind of person whose very look seemed to intimate that no one but himself and his like had any right to cumber the earth. And just the kind of person that Ray Luard loathed and abominated beyond words. Ray’s disgust of him, and all his kind and all their doings, showed unmistakably in his face, and the fat one became aware of it and took offence. He dropped ponderously into the seat alongside Ray so that he filled three-quarters of it, and proceeded to stare at him in most offensive fashion. His little yellow pig-like eyes, almost lost in the greasy fat rolls of his face, travelled suspiciously over his neighbour from head to foot as though searching for something to settle on. Ray knew the look and its meaning. Had he been back at Heidelberg he would forthwith have demanded of the starer when and where it was his pleasure they should meet to fight it out. But this mountain of fat was long past his Mensur days, and Ray was doubtful how to tackle him. He did perhaps the best thing under the circumstances,--turned his back on him and looked out of the window. But the fat one was not satisfied to let matters rest so. He loosed a wheezy laugh and said, “Ach, zo! Ein Engländer!” with another wheezy little laugh of extremest scorn. “And what of that, Fat-Pig?” rapped out Ray, in German equal to his own, and the shot took the fat one in the wind. “Fat-Pig! Fat-Pig! Gott im Himmel, you call me Fat-Pig?” He rose, bellowing with fury, and was about to drop himself bodily on Ray, when others who had watched the proceedings--a Bavarian whose foot he had trampled on without apology ten minutes before, and a Saxon upon whose newspapers he had also plumped down and pulped into illegibility--jumped up and laid hands on him and dragged him back. “So you are! So you are!” they shouted. “The Englishman has doubtless paid his fare and is entitled to the whole of a seat without insult or annoyance.” “They ought to charge you double and then carry you in the baggage-van,” said the Saxon. “You should try to remember you’re not yet in Prussia--you!” growled the Bavarian, jerking the mountainous one down into an empty seat. “Ja!--Mein Gott, if I had you all in Prussia I’d show you who’s who,” and he wagged his dewlaps at them with menacing malevolence. “A damned English spy, if I have any eyes,” he wheezed. “No more a spy than you’re a gentleman,” retorted Ray. “Enough! Enough, mein Herr! Let him be! He’s just a Prussian and they’re all like that,--blown out with their own conceit till they’ve no decent manners left,” said the Bavarian. “That is so,” said the Saxon, and they removed themselves with Ray out of sight and sound of the swollen one.