"Say 'Byres,' baby," urged Beatrice happily.
"You're quite sure that there isn't anything advertised called
'Byres'? You're sure you can't drink Byres or rub yourself down with
Byres?"
"Quite."
"Well, then, we must be AT Byres."
There was a shriek from Beatrice, as she rushed to the window.
"We're in the wrong train—Quick! Get the bags!—Have you got the rug?—Where's the umbrella?—Open the window, stupid!"
I got up and moved her from the door.
"Leave this to me," I said calmly. "Porter!—
PORTER!!—PORTER!!!—Oh, guard, what station's this?"
"Byres, sir."
"Byres?"