He was beginning to rise to the occasion. He was one of those men who are usually too slack to burthen their souls with a refreshing expletive.
“What is the matter?” inquired Mr. Bodery gravely.
“There is a man,” explained Sidney hurriedly, “getting out of the train who is coming to stay with us. I had forgotten his existence. Don't look round!”
Mr. Bodery was a Londoner. He did not look round. Nine out of ten country-bred people would have indulged in a stare.
“Is this all your luggage?” continued Sidney abruptly. He certainly was rising.
“Yes.”
“Then come along. We'll bolt for it. He'll have to get a fly, and that means ten minutes' start if the porter is not officious and mulls things.”
They hurried out of the station and clambered into the dog-cart. Sidney gathered up the reins.
“Hang it,” he exclaimed. “What bad luck! There is a fly waiting. It is never there when you want it.”
Mr. Bodery looked between the shafts.