The train was slackening speed, and the next minute they were standing on the platform of a pretty attractive station, quite alone amongst the fir-trees. The station-master’s house was covered with roses and clematis, and he and the porters were evidently famous gardeners in their loneliness, for there was not a house near, the board up giving the name of the station as Furzebrough Road.
“Shall I take the luggage, sir?” said a man, touching his hat; and at the same moment Tom caught sight of a solitary fly standing outside the railings.
“Yes; six packages. By the way, Mr Day, did a box come down for me?”
This to the station-master, who came up as the train glided off and disappeared in a tunnelled sandhill a hundred yards farther.
“Yes, sir; very heavy box, marked ‘Glass, with care.’ Take it with you?”
“Yes, and let it be with care. Here, I’ll come and pay the rates. Tom, my lad, see that the things are all got to the fly.”
Tom nodded; and as his uncle disappeared in the station-master’s office, he went to where the two porters were busy with a barrow and the luggage.
They were laughing and chatting with the flyman, and did not notice Tom’s approach, so that he winced as he heard one of the porters say—
“Always some fresh contrapshum or another. Regular old lunatic, that’s what he is.”
“What’s he going to do with that old mill?” said the other.