CHAPTER XV. BOOKS
The London express rolled with stately deliberation into Brayport station. Mr. Bodery folded up his newspapers, reached down his bag from the netting, and prepared to alight. The editor of the Beacon had enjoyed a very pleasant journey, despite broiling sun and searching dust. He knew the possibilities of a first-class smoking-carriage—how to regulate the leeward window and chock off the other with a wooden match borrowed from the guard.
He stepped from the carriage with the laboured sprightliness of a man past the forties, and a moment later Sidney Carew was at his side.
“Mr. Bodery?”
“The same. You are no doubt Mr. Carew?”
“Yes. Thanks for coming. Hope it didn't inconvenience you?”
“Not at all,” replied the editor, breaking his return ticket.
“D——n!” said Sidney suddenly.