The Captain's Journal: September 2011
On arrival the crowded buffet caboose appears full; however the attentive steward finds me a seat sharing an already occupied booth. Opposite sits a gargantuan chap, purple faced with small dark beady eyes, in possession of a large droopy walrus moustache. Attributes I might add just visible over the top of the evening edition of the ‘Pioneer’ news chronicle. Fawcett.
I cough, adjust my cravat and attempt an introduction. “Good evening Sir, Captain Peabody Fawcett, Royal Navy retired, most pleased to make your acquaintance and you ….” The cove who was by now glowering over the top of his paper, positively bristled! “Limey eh?” he grunted “Huh. The timely arrival of the waiter clutching the menu broke the impasse.
My dining companion’s table manners leave a lot to be desired, but needs must and sporting napkins neatly tucked into our waist jackets we attack our buffalo steaks (known in this part of the world as bahgurs) with a renewed vigour. Superb!
With every mouthful the fellows demeanour seemed in someway to soften which was just as well because I’d earlier had visions of the blessed cove in the advanced stages of an apoplectic fit, floundering around the carriage gasping for air and requiring one to attempt some form of resuscitation. Fawcett.
With no gin to hand the Hendrick's manoeuvre was not an option and whilst maintaining the notion that tash on tash was per chance a tash too much, the blighter may well have pegged it! Regards Fawcett.
At long last the fellow relented "Allow me to introduce myself" he paused as if for effect "I am Colonel Istkebab Thenkarzi late of the Magyar Hussars, currently a purveyor of hair pomades and Maccaser oil to the Southern gentry." Strewth. Fawcett.
Taking a swig from his hip flask he continued "I have all the stuff knocked up in the far east” Maine I ventured? “No China” he retorted. I nearly choked on a particularly difficult part of the Buffalo. Fawcett.
Good God, I thought to myself, one has yet to resort to that malarkey. My Moustache Wax is lovingly handmade in Norfolk, Great Britain.
The blaggard in front of me was in truth a snake oil salesman, a chancer a charlatan no less. I decided to take my leave of this thoroughly disagreeable fellow but not before giving him a jar of my patent pomade and suggesting he attend to his drooping hirsute appendage forthwith. Huuuumph.
I wended my weary way back to my makeshift cabin, cleaned my teeth in an effort to get rid of the stubborn bad taste in my mouth and dived in to the bunk. The crisp cotton sheets coupled with soft downy pillows and the gently rocking of the sleeping car ensured that I fell into a deep sleep within minutes of being horizontal. My dreams that night haunted with a coterie of purple faced buffoons or were they indeed ruddy arsed baboons? Fawcett.
I awoke to the hammering of the sleeping car attendant who hollered through the door that we would be arriving in Deadwood within the hour. My my! Fawcett.