the first-class compartment, and put his foot upon it.
The station-master had promised to be home by nine o'clock to a stewed-steak-and-onion supper, a dish dear to his heart, and now he had been delayed nearly an hour by this miserable business of trying to explain to congenital idiots that if they persisted in their folly they would, in all probability, be left stranded, and that it was no use threatening him with legal proceedings. In return they had done nothing but pester him with their ridiculous questions as to what the Company meant to do. Could he recommend a good hotel? Where could a motor-car be obtained?
He banged-to the door viciously. He hated strikes, he hated trade unions, he hated railways he hated everything connected with locomotion. It was only from sheer lack of inspiration that he did not curse the day that gave to the world George Stephenson.
"Right, sir?" queried the guard, his whistle lifted towards his lips.
"Right!" echoed the station-master. "One passenger won't get out," he added, and he waved his hand with the air of a Pontius Pilate repudiating all responsibility for the folly of others. He was wondering what, in the natural order of things, would be the effect of half-an-hour's delay upon stewed-steak-and-onions.
There was a shrill whistle, a green light described an arc-like movement, and the station-master turned to escape from a fiery-faced little man with an eye like a fish and a moustache like a walrus. On his lips the station-master saw imbecile questions framing themselves.
"Why didn't that gentleman get—"
The station-master fled. Realisation had suddenly come to him that every passenger who had alighted
