It wants a few minutes to the departure of the Continental mail.
The station is a scene of bustle. Porters are rushing hither and thither with piles of heavy travelling trunks. Little groups of travellers dot the platform, affectionate farewells are being taken, and many an anxious eye is looking down the line where the lights gleam, and wondering what sort of weather it is out at sea.
The stolid English traveller, who, having bought half-a-dozen newspapers, and taken his seat in an empty carriage, considers he has done an act which entitles him to the whole of the compartment; the English lady, arrayed for travel in garments which are calculated to amaze the foreigner; the Frenchman, who raises his hat every time he passes a fellow-traveller, and spits on the floor of the carriage without apology; the Belgian, with his hideous black travelling-cap and funereal suit; the German, the Italian, and the Russian, speaking now in English now in their native language, all are here.
The train is a light one, and there is plenty of room for travellers who wish to be exclusive.
A few shillings to the guard on a slack night will generally reserve a compartment as far as Dover.
Two gentlemen evidently think privacy worth purchasing, for the guard has closed the door of a first-class compartment on them and is slipping a bright half-crown into his pocket.
They have handed their carpet-bags to a porter to put in the guard’s van.
The bell is ringing and the train is about to start.
There are a few people still bidding adieu to their friends.
Just at the last moment two gentlemen, who have not taken their seats, step into the guard’s van and crouch down behind the luggage.