The railroad station at Flatville was a large and central one, two or three branches converging at that point and joining the main line. A train from London was due before that by which the Colvilles were to proceed would start. Almost at the moment our little party arrived it made its appearance, the engine snorting and puffing, as though it were about to burst with spite at having been forced to draw so heavy a train at the rate of fifty miles-an hour.
“This is the train by which our cousin, Wilfred Goldsmith, was to arrive; but it is so long since I last saw him, that I scarcely expect to recognise him,” observed Percy.
“Oh! I hope we shall not miss him, for he will take care that they don’t put us into a wrong carriage, and carry us off to some desolate island, where we shall never be heard of any more till we have been eaten by the savages like Captain Cook; and then you know it will be too late,” suggested Hugh.
“I will ensure you against that catastrophe,” observed Ernest, “even if your cousin should not make his appearance; for I am going as far as Tickletown, and we will travel in the came carriage; see, they are bringing them up now—follow me.”
So saying, and having committed the important trunk to the care of an amiable and intelligent porter, Ernest selected a carriage, and the trio took their seats. Just before the train was about to start, an individual bustled up, followed by a porter carrying a writing-desk and a railway-rug glowing with all the colours of the rainbow. The moment the door was opened, he sprang in with such energy as nearly to overturn poor Hugh.
“Beg your pardon, little boy, but ’pon my word I didn’t see you—you ought to grow a couple of sizes larger to travel safe by rail; it was nearly a case of infanticide—a spoilt child, as somebody calls it. That’ll do, Velveteens” (this was addressed to the porter); “gently with that writing-desk, if you please; there’s all my personal jewellery, and several £500 notes in it. That’s the time of day! Sorry the directors set their faces against tipping; but the first occasion on which we meet in private life, half-a-crown awaits you; till then, Velveteens, as the Archbishop says in the play, ‘Accept my blessing.’”
The speaker was either a very small man, or a large boy dressed in adult clothing—at first sight it was not easy to determine which—till closer observation detected, in the breaking-voice, now hoarse, now shrill, the youthful complexion, and straggling, unformed figure, sufficient evidence that the latter hypothesis was the correct one. His outer boy was encased in a rough, very loose pea-jacket, with preternatural buttons, a. pair of the very “loudest” checked trousers, real Wellington boots, with heels not above three inches high, a shawl round his neck, in regard to which Emily’s perfidious shopman might have been believed, had he declared the colours to be indisputably fast; while a velvet travelling-cap, with a bullion tassel, completed his costume. Having wrapped his rug round his lower limbs, and gone through a most elaborate pantomime of making himself comfortable, he condescended to favour his companions with a glance of patronising scrutiny; apparently satisfying himself, by this means, that they were sufficiently respectable to be honoured by his conversation, he turned to Ernest, saying,—
“Fine open weather this, sir—jolly for the hunting—none-of your confounded frosts to-day—regular break up yesterday evening, and been thawing like bricks ever since—fond of hunting, sir?”
“I consider it a fine, manly sport, but too dangerous for little boys to be allowed to indulge in,” returned Ernest, drily.
Either not detecting, or more probably purposely ignoring, the covert satire of his speech, the fast young gentleman appeared to agree in the sentiment. .