He was off, gone down with the first little train to the flat-land⁠—though not without having put his affairs in order⁠—that we would not suggest. He had paid his bill, and the fee for the fumigation of his room; then, in all haste, without a syllable to his relative, he had packed his handbags⁠—probably the night before, or even in the dawning, when everybody else was asleep⁠—and when Hans Castorp entered his uncle’s room at the hour for early breakfast, he found it empty.

Arms akimbo, he stood and said: “Well, well!” And a pensive smile overspread his features. “Yes, yes,” he said, and nodded. Somebody had taken to his heels. In headlong haste, breathless, as though the moment of resolution must not be let slip, he had flung his things together and made off. Not with his cousin by his side, not after fulfilment of his lofty mission, but glad to save even himself by flight, the goodman had deserted to the flat-land⁠—well, pleasant journey to you, Uncle James!