It was an awkward situation. In England, I should have gone to the stationmaster and explained my mistake. But in Germany they are not content with your explaining a little matter of this sort to one man: they take you round and get you to explain it to about half a dozen; and if any one of the half dozen happens not to be handy, or not to have time just then to listen to you, they have a habit of leaving you over for the night to finish your explanation the next morning. I thought I would just put the thing out of sight, and then, without making any fuss or show, take a short walk. I found a wood shed, which seemed just the very place, and was wheeling the bicycle into it when, unfortunately, a red- hatted railway official, with the airs of a retired field-marshal, caught sight of me and came up. He said: "What are you doing with that bicycle?" I said: "I am going to put it in this wood shed out of the way." I tried to convey by my tone that I was performing a kind and thoughtful action, for which the railway officials ought to thank me; but he was unresponsive. "Is it your bicycle?" he said. "Well, not exactly," I replied. "Whose is it?" he asked, quite sharply. "I can't tell you," I answered. "I don't know whose bicycle it is." "Where did you get it from?" was his next question. There was a suspiciousness about his tone that was almost insulting. "I got it," I answered, with as much calm dignity as at the moment I could assume, "out of the train. The fact is," I continued, frankly, "I have made a mistake." He did not allow me time to finish. He merely said he thought so too, and blew a whistle. Recollection of the subsequent proceedings is not, so far as I am concerned, amusing. By a miracle of good luck--they say Providence watches over certain of us--the incident happened in Carlsruhe, where I possess a German friend, an official of some importance. Upon what would have been my fate had the station not been at Carlsruhe, or had my friend been from home, I do not care to dwell; as it was I got off, as the saying is, by the skin of my teeth. I should like to add that I left Carlsruhe without a stain upon my character, but that would not be the truth. My going scot free is regarded in police circles there to this day as a grave miscarriage of justice.