wooden desk and an open book, in which from
time to time their utterances are recorded, much
as if they were oracles whose sayings would be
afterwards interpreted by the high priests. Beyond
the desk, and at the far end of the Hole,
is a narrow window, through which the workmen
employed on an extension of railway, the
rude chasms formed by the excavators, the premature
ruins of the houses half pulled down,
and the shapely indications of the coming lines,
may all be seen. To the left of this window,
and facing the entrance door, is an apparatus
which I can only describe as terrifying. Composed
of strong and massive cranks so connected
as to form a consistent whole, and resembling a
tangled agricultural harrow, or one of the weird
instruments of torture which racked the limbs
of schismatics in the bad old times, it has secret
springs, and bells, and joints, which creak, and
act, and tingle with a direct suddenness highly
discomposing to a stranger. You look mildly
at one of its joints, and have a question concerning
its use on the tip of your tongue, when,
presto! it gives a cumbrous flap, and becomes
a staring red signboard, with "Crystal Palace up
waiting," or "Brighton down waiting," staring
you in the face. The bells ring violently, the
speaking faces of the shut-up cases tingle in
unison, and the whole proceedings remind you
forcibly of Mr. Home and the false spirit-world.

The Hole in the Waller in charge, whom for
brevity's sake we will for the future designate
by the last word of his title, knows all about it,
and acts promptly; but to the rash people who
have ventured into his cave of mystery the
whole proceedings are awesome to the last
degree. Waller stands in the front of the
private box, which is, of course, open to the
stage. This stage is the "one line in and one
line out," and the heavy iron handles coming
inwards from the front of the box are momentarily
worked by him in obedience to the
shrieking directions of the machinery named.
Thus, when the time for starting a train arrives,
word is given to Waller, and one of the red
iron flaps comes down with the suddenness of a
practicable shop-front in a pantomime, and it
rests with him to turn a handle and arrange the
"points." Thus, too, when a train is arriving,
Battersea-bridge signals Waller, who decides
whether the coast is clear and it may come in.
It, is necessary to remember the space we have
traversed, and the number of lines of rails it represented,
to appreciate the delicacy and care
required. Looking down upon the two narrow
rails, spreading as they do into diverse directions
directly they pass the Hole and approach
the station, it seemed to our uninformed observation
like squeezing several gallons of liquid
into a pint measure. Shriek, whiz, bang from
the engine, a harsh grating sound from the
wheels, a brief spasm of ponderous locomotion
which shakes every fibre of our standing ground,
and we learn that another and another human
cargo of pleasure or health seekers, or trouble-
fliers or money-hunters, have passed by. A
rapid jerk upwards or downwards of one of the
iron handles, another angry flap from the instrument
of torture, substituting the red disc,
"Crystal Palace" or "Brighton" "In" for
"Out," a slight change of position in Waller,
and an equally slight movement from the telegraph
clerk, are the only signs within the
prison-house. At the end of the long row of
iron handles is a chair, evidently placed there to
taunt Waller on the impossibility of sitting
down; and keeping a fascinated eye on the constantly
changing discs opposite, we occupy this
with the firm resolve to master the mysteries of
railway-signalling, and to become an affiliated
member of the Hole in the Wall. The attempt
was a farce, and the result a failure. Waller, a
good honest fellow, with black and oily hands,
what seemed to be a wisp of engineer's "waste"
round his neck, a rather grimy face, a keen grey
eye, and an expression honest as a child's smile,
cast observations to us interjectionally, which
he firmly believed to be elucidatory. But they
only served to increase the bewilderment the
flaps and jerks and loud tingling had brought
about; and, beyond realising very keenly that
the faintest slip or mistake on his part would
have wrought unmitigated disaster, we failed to
master a single detail of what we had come
specially to see. "You see, it's mostly cross
traffic, is this." Bang went one of the cranks,
and out came "Metropolitan out waiting,"
with its wicked red disc face; whereupon
bells rang, and Waller worked a handle, "as I
was a-sayin'." Now the train itself rushed by,
and word came that a train from Brighton was
waiting to come in. "Empties" from the
Crystal Palace; a shouting game of question
and answer with a pointsman, who uplifts both
arms, and remains motionless, like the letter V
in a charade; several flaps from the malevolent
discs, who seem to take unholy pleasure in interruption;
a turning of handles affecting the
three dial-signals over the lines to the left, which
jut out hands and arms obediently; shrill
whistles to the right; a constant watchfulness
at the speaking-faces behind, occupy Waller for
the next five minutes, and make conversation
impossible.

"Now you see, sir, that diss (disc), it tells me
the Brightin eleven forty-five it's a-waitin' to
come out"—bang goes another infernal gong—
"but," continues Waller, quite calmly, "I
know, don't you see, that there's somethin' in
the way"—two strikes on a more musical instrument
here, and a rapid jerk upwards of a
heavy iron handle by the speaker "and now
it's all right, as they're puttin' another carriage
on, and so, as I was sayin', the line's clear and
I lets 'em through."

On the instant a train rushes angrily out as
if indignant at delay, and I recognise old Jawby
nursing his shin in a first-class carriage just as
he does in the club-library in town. Ah, Jawby,
my good friend, the superiority of my present
position makes me view your social shortcomings
with gentle pity and toleration. Uplifting
your stupid old forefinger and wagging
your pendulous old nose, you were, doubtless,