"Plenty o' room here, marm," shouted a stout, gray-haired, farmer-like old man, as he reached out a strong hand to help her into the carriage, and found a place for her wraps upon the already crowded rack.
The compartment was more than half full. A party of cheap trippers with a wailing baby, and a "pierrot" with a banjo, which he occupied himself with tuning incessantly, did not offer much prospect of a peaceful journey; but Mrs. Stewart knew it was impossible to choose one's company at a holiday season, and wisely made the best of things, while travelling was still such a novelty to Isobel that she would have enjoyed any experience.
"It's no easy job catchin' trains to-day, marm," said the old farmer, with the air of one who enjoys hearing himself talk. "How them porters gets all the folks sorted out fairly beats me. It's main hot, too. I've come all the way fra' Birmingham. Bin travellin' since eight o'clock this mornin', and I shall be reet glad to find myself back at Silversands again. Little missy 'ud like to sit by the window here, I take it?" good-naturedly making room for her.—"Nay, no need o' thanks! You're welcome, honey. I've a grandchild over at Skegness way as might be your livin' image. Bless you! I've reared seven, and I know what bairns like. Sit you here against me, and when the train gets out of the station you'll see the sea and all the ships sailin' on it."
Isobel settled herself in the corner with much content. She had never expected such luck as to secure a window-seat, and she surveyed the ruddy cheeks and bushy eyebrows of her kindly fellow-traveller with a broad smile of gratitude.
"Goin' to Silversands, missy?" he inquired. "Ay, it's a grand place, and I should ought to know, for I've lived there, man and boy, for a matter of sixty year. Where might you be a-stayin', if I may make so bold? Mrs. Jackson! Why, she's an old friend o' mine, and will make you comfortable, if any one can. You ask her if she knows Mr. Binks of the White Coppice. I reckon she won't deny the acquaintance."
"Tickets ready!" cried the inspector, breaking in upon the conversation. "Take your seats, please! All stations to Groby, Heatherton, Silversands, and Ferndale."
There was a last stampede for places among excited passengers, a last rush of porters with rugs and hat boxes; the guard had already unfurled his green flag, and was in the act of putting the whistle to his lips, when two late-comers appeared, racing in frantic haste down the platform.
"O mother!" cried Isobel, "that lady and the little girl are going to be left behind! It's the little girl in the blue hat, too! They were buying papers at the bookstall. Just look how they're running! Oh, the guard's stopping the train for them! I think they'll catch it, after all. Why, they're coming in here!"
"Put us in anywhere—anywhere!" cried the lady in desperate tones, as the inspector flung open the carriage door.
"Here you are, m'm!" cried the porter, seizing the little girl with scant ceremony, and jumping her into the compartment.—"Luggage in the front van, and the light hampers in No. 43. Thank you, m'm.—Stand back there!"