"Them sort of showers go through a feller
like a knife," he said. "Stand in here, sir,
out of the blast." And he opened a waiting-
room and raised the gas. (A huge gloomy
apartment, with clouds settling over the other
end, where there were the sepulchral
refreshment counters.)

"What am I to do?" said Mr. Tillotson,
calmly. "I must get down to-night. Is there
no way? A special train?"

The man shook his head. "Too late, sir.
Stokers all gone—superintendent a-bed. Why,
not three weeks ago, there was a feller come
running in at this very hour a-screeching for a
special. His wife was a-dying. And he put a
real hunderpun-note down there on that table
—I saw it with my own eyes—and our people
could do nothing for him."

"But this," said Mr. Tillotson, passionately,
"is worse than any one dying. I must get
down to-night. You do not know what
depends on it. Here!"—he was appealing
to the true source of sympathy and invention
with a liberality that the porter had not
experienced in his life— "find out some way—
think of something. Help me! Where does
this superintendent live? We are losing most
precious moments."

The man had his finger to his forehead in
a second. (Perhaps the unfortunate whose wife
was dying had not appealed in the same way.)
"Wait—wait, sir. You stay there. Ah!
there's Walker. Here, Walker."

Walker was a railway policeman passing by
carelessly outside. To him the porter—still
not forgetting to muffle his jacket up about his
chest—went out. They had a long consultation.
And in the ghostly refreshment-room Mr.
Tillotson sat and waited calmly. Walker and
the porter both came in together.

"I have it, sir," said the porter. "There's
the packet train that will be in here in half an
hour, or less, and th' engine must go back to the
works, thirty mile off. And I tell you what,
sir, I'll just run up and see the superintendent.
He's as likely not to be gone to bed."

"Sure not," said the policeman.

"And he won't mind sending it on to the
junction—only twenty mile forward. (It will
all go into the night's work.) And then you can
pick up the express. The very thing; nothing
could be nicer."

The policeman said it fitted to a T, and in a
moment the porter had gone.

In a few minutes the up packet train was
signalled. Porters came dropping out of niches
and corners, like rabbits creeping out of
burrows. A bell rang; the dim lights all suddenly
flashed up, and in a moment the cave was all
ablaze. Down, afar off, ruby-coloured moons
were flashing in the air, and changing into
moons of the regular tint; and presently there
was a rumbling and a hollow roaring, and a
white  cloud of steam, and the packet train
came in.

It was a very dwindled packet train—not
more than two or three carriages. For, as the
guard told one of the porters as he came on
to the platform, "it was a tearing night at sea,"
and only a few had come over.

In a few moments more the porter had
returned with the superintendent, who had not
gone to bed, and who, in truth, when he had
seen Mr. Tillotson's card, which was very well
known, had come with alacrity.

"To be sure; nothing could be easier. Here,
this carriage might stay on, and go down with
the engine."

It was like a good-natured host ordering out
a horse and chaise for his guests. And in a very
few moments the sleepless telegraph was working,
and the horse, after a short mash of water
and coke, was put in front quite fresh and
brisk, and was cantering out in the volumes
of dark clouds, which had by this time set in
again, and made his hoofs echo gaily on the
ground. In a lonely, sad-coloured blue
carriage, with a sickly lamp above his head (it
had burnt all the way up from the packet over
the heads of sick passengers), Mr. Tillotson
sat.

What were his meditations during these
weary half hours? Rather, what were the
pictures that seemed to grow out of the dull blue
cushions before him? The sense of utter
blankness and calm misery, and the crash and
tumbling of many castles. His whole life
lay there before him—a sudden heap of
ruins. Every motion was leading him towards
that scene whence one glimpse of happiness
had flashed so long ago; and even on that blue
back ground he made out the spire and towers
of the old cathedral, lying in tranquil
serenity; and from its long and graceful
windows could hear that sad music floating,
touched by fingers that he had once——This
made his heart shrink up and ache; and he
put his hand before his eyes to brush away
these old cruel dreams.

There was now a light or two swooping by,
like stray meteors, and a slackening—one or
two more lights, and a halt; while a
conversation went on. This was the "works." No
doubt an explanation was in progress with the
engine ostlers, who were perhaps surprised at
not having to take away their horse to his
stables. Then they went on again; and the
dull blue cloth gradually began once more to
break out into fresh pictures.

Yet Mr. Tillotson was wonderfully calm. Of
late, the gradual and cruel frustration of all his
hopes—the slow sweeping away of the dream
of happiness that he had fondly thought had
come true—prepared him for this blow. Only at
times—as the thought that he might be too late,
and that he would never arrive to save her
from herself and from the certain misery which
this wretched step must bring with it—the
flying engine seemed to crawl, and the cold
gripe of despair seemed to close upon his
heart; and he had to rise and walk about
his prison to waken out of his dream. As for
himself, he was now so dulled, so hopeless,
and almost so resigned, that he had accepted