Thrush did not look as though he were being guided by anybody or anything, beyond the dictates of his own appetites, as he sat by the window of the restaurant car, guzzling new potatoes and such Burgundy as could be had in a train. But he was noticeably less garrulous than usual, and his companion also had very little to say until the train was held up inexplicably outside Willesden, when he began to fume.
“I never knew such a thing on this line before,” he complained; “it’s all the harder luck, for I never was on such an errand before, and it’ll just make the difference to me.”
“You’ll have time,” said Thrush, consulting his watch as the train showed signs of life at last.
“Not for what I want to do,” said Mr. Upton firmly. “I want to shake that man’s hand, and to hear from his own lips about my boy!”
“I’m not sure that you’ll find him at home,” Thrush said, after a contemplative pause.
“I’ll take my chance of that.”
“He said something about their both going out of town to-day—meaning niece and self. I heard her playing just before I left, and that seemed to remind him of it.”
“Well, Thrush, I mean to risk it.”
“And losing the train?”
“I can motor down to Plymouth; there’s plenty of time. I might take him with me, as well as you?”