'And what is it, dear boy?'
'The henspyration,' said Chops impressively, 'is a tillygrum.'
'A telegram, Chops? There, you'll find that a nice bit of supper!'
'A tillygrum, Crona, to-morrow mornin' fust thing. Runs with it my single self to make sure. And that tillygrum will be to Mrs Oak, derelict of Capting Oak of the wretched ship Cumberland, Capstan Cottage, Shepherd's Bush, London. An' it will say—the tillygrum will say—"Meet Lotty at King's Cross in the caravan, on Friday first as ever was.—Yours to order, Chops."'
'Very good idea of yours, Chops; but you couldn't put all that in a telegram. Besides, Captain Oak isn't dead, so Mrs Oak isn't a relict, let alone a derelict. I'll write the telegram, Chops, this very night.'
. . . . . . .
The lights of London were beginning to spring up here and there in windows as the train drew into the gloom of King's Cross, and Lotty seized her little bag and fiddle-case, got out, locked her door, and leapt off the truck and almost into the arms of kindly Mrs Oak and the stationmaster himself. After the first greetings, the guard came hurrying up.
'We've got a little stowaway here, guard,' said the man with the gold band, laughing. 'Travelled all the way from Scotland in her own caravan!'
'Well, well, well! And a pretty little stowaway she is. 'Pon my soul, if I'd known she was with me, stationmaster, I would have been sorely tempted to neglect my duty, and travelled with her in the same carriage.'