"Yes, sir." He blew his whistle and the train went on again.
"At any rate we know now that it WAS Byres," I remarked, when the silence began to get oppressive.
"It's all very well for you," Beatrice burst out indignantly, "but you don't think about Baby. We don't know a bit where we are—"
"That's the one thing we do know," I said. "We're at this little
Byres place."
"It was the porter's fault at Liverpool Street," said John consolingly. "He told us it was a through carriage."
"I don't care whose fault it was; I'm only thinking of Baby."
"What time do babies go to bed as a rule?" I asked.
"This one goes at six."
"Well, then, she's got another hour. Now, what would Napoleon have done?"
"Napoleon," said John, after careful thought, "would have turned all your clothes out of your bag, would have put the baby in it diagonally, and have bored holes in the top for ventilation. That's as good as going to bed—you avoid the worst of the evening mists. And people would only think you kept caterpillars."