Ulick made his way in as a train stood panting before the platform. He had a glimpse of a square face and curly hair at the window of a second-class carriage.
‘Maurice, come back!’ he cried. ‘Here, guard! this little boy must come back!’
‘Go on!’ shouted Maurice. ‘I’ve got my ticket. ‘No one can stop me. I’m going to Malta!’ and he tried to get to the other side of a stout traveller, who defended his legs from him, and said, ‘Ha! Running away from school, young master! Here’s your usher.’
‘No, I’m not running away! I’m not at school! I’m Maurice Kendal! I’m going to my brother at Malta!’
‘He is the son of Mr. Kendal of Bayford,’ said Ulick to the station-master,’ his parents are from home, and there will be dreadful distress if he goes in this way. Maurice, your sister has troubles enough already.’
‘I’ve my ticket, and can’t be stopped.’
But even as he spoke, the stout traveller picked him up by the collar, and dropped him like a puppy dog into Ulick’s arms, just as the train was getting into motion; and a head protruded from every window to see the truant, who was pommelling Ulick in a violent fury, and roaring, ‘Let me go; I will go to Gilbert!’
‘Behave like a man,’ said Ulick; ‘don’t disgrace yourself in that way.’
The boy coloured, and choking with passion and disappointment, and straining against Ulick’s hold of his shoulder.
‘Indeed, sir,’ said the station-master, ‘if we had recognised the young gentleman, we would have made more inquiries, but he asked so readily for his ticket, not seeming at a loss, and we have so many young travellers, that we thought of nothing amiss. Will you have a fly, sir?’