And sure enough, off the train went. The children watched the tail-lights of the train till it disappeared round the curve of the line, and then turned to go back to the dusty freedom of the General Waiting Room and the joys of the advertisement game.
They expected to see just one or two people, the end of the procession of passengers who had given up their tickets and gone away. Instead, the platform round the door of the station had a dark blot round it, and the dark blot was a crowd of people.
“Oh!” cried Peter, with a thrill of joyous excitement, “something's happened! Come on!”
They ran down the platform. When they got to the crowd, they could, of course, see nothing but the damp backs and elbows of the people on the crowd's outside. Everybody was talking at once. It was evident that something had happened.
“It's my belief he's nothing worse than a natural,” said a farmerish-looking person. Peter saw his red, clean-shaven face as he spoke.
“If you ask me, I should say it was a Police Court case,” said a young man with a black bag.
“Not it; the Infirmary more like—”
Then the voice of the Station Master was heard, firm and official:—
“Now, then—move along there. I'll attend to this, if YOU please.”
But the crowd did not move. And then came a voice that thrilled the children through and through. For it spoke in a foreign language. And, what is more, it was a language that they had never heard. They had heard French spoken and German. Aunt Emma knew German, and used to sing a song about bedeuten and zeiten and bin and sin. Nor was it Latin. Peter had been in Latin for four terms.