Part 39 (2/2)

”Oh,” I thought, ”if he would but have stayed!”

”Good-bye, my lad!” said Uncle d.i.c.k. ”Take care of yourself, Cob, and of the packet,” whispered Uncle Jack.

I was about to slap my breast and say, ”All right here!” but he caught my hand and held it down.

”Don't,” he said in a low half-angry voice. ”Discretion, boy. If you have something valuable about you, don't show people where it is.”

I saw the wisdom of the rebuke and shook hands. ”I'll try and be wiser,” I whispered; ”trust me.” He nodded, and this made me forget the trap for the moment. But Uncle Bob grasped my hand and brought it back.

”Stand away, please,” shouted the guard; but Uncle Bob held on by my hand as the train moved.

”Take care of yourself, lad. Call a cab the moment you reach the platform if your father is not there.”

”Yes,” I said, reaching over a fellow-pa.s.senger to speak. ”Uncle Bob,”

I added quickly, ”big trap in the corner of the yard; take it up at once--to-night.”

”Yes, yes,” he said as he ran along the platform. ”I'll see to it.

Good-bye!”

We were off and he was waving his hand to me, and I saw him for a few moments, and then all was indistinct beneath the station lamps, and we were gliding on, with the glare and smoke and glow of the busy town lighting up the sky.

It had all come to me so suddenly that I could hardly believe I was speeding away back to London; but once more comfortable in my mind with the promise that Uncle Bob had made to take up the trap, I sat back in the comfortable corner seat thinking of seeing my father and mother again, and of what a series of adventures I should have to relate.

Then I had a look round at my fellow-pa.s.sengers, of whom there were three--a stout old gentleman and a young lady who seemed to be his daughter, and a dark-eyed keen-looking man who was seated opposite to me, and who held a newspaper in his hand and had a couple of books with him.

”I'd offer to lend you one,” he said, touching his books and smiling; ”but you couldn't read--I can't. Horrible lights.”

Just then a heavy snore from the old gentleman made the young lady lean over to him and touch him, waking him up with a start.

The keen-looking man opposite to me raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly, shading his face from the other occupants with his newspaper.

Three or four times over the old gentleman dropped asleep and had to be roused up, and my fellow-pa.s.senger smiled good-humouredly and said:

”Might as well have let him sleep.”

This was in a whisper, and he made two or three remarks to me.

He seemed very much disposed to be friendly and pointed out the lights of a distant town or two.

”Got in at Arrowfield, didn't you?” he said at last.

I replied that I did; and it was on the tip of my tongue to say, ”So did you,” but I did not.

”I'm going on to London,” he said. ”Nasty time to get in--three in the morning. I hate it. No one about. Night cabs and milk carts, police and market wagons. People at the hotel always sleepy. Ah! Here we are at Westernbow.”

For the train was stopping, and when it did draw up at the platform the old gentleman was roused up by the young lady, and they got out and left us alone.

<script>