“Dog ticket, please, sir.”
“Dog ticket? I have none. Didn’t know one would be required. Never heard of such a thing. But I will pay his fare.”
“Couldn’t take it, sir. ’Gainst the rules.”
“Then what shall I do?” exclaimed the distressed squire.
“Uncle, I will jump out and buy a dog ticket at the station here,” said Le; and without waiting a second he sprang from the carriage and vanished into the ticket office.
“Look sharp, young gent, or you’ll be left. Train starts again in two minutes,” called the guard.
Le did look sharp, and the next minute reappeared, flourishing the prize.
He jumped in, and the train moved on.
Everybody went to sleep except Wynnette, who went off into a waking dream, and saw the ghosts of all her ancestors, from the Druids down, pass in procession before her. A weird, unreal, magical night journey this seemed to the travelers. The night express stopped at fewer stations than any other train of the twenty-four hours.
Whenever it did stop, our passengers waked up and looked out upon the strange and beautiful land—old, but always new—dotted with its country towns and villages, its castles, farmhouses and cottages, dimly seen in the soft haze of the summer night, where evening and morning twilight seemed to meet so that it was never dark.