"Well, I'm danged," he chuckled, "if that ain't a good un. I maun go an' tell Young Tom," and he turned preparatory to making off for the signal-box.
Bindle, however, by a swift movement barred his way.
"If it's as funny as all that, ole sport, wot's the matter with tellin' us all about it?"
Once more the old man stuttered off into a fugue of chuckles.
"Young Tom'll laugh over this, 'e will," he gasped; "'e'll split 'isself."
"I suppose they don't 'ave much to amuse 'em," said Bindle patiently. "Now then, wot's it all about?" he demanded.
"Wrong station," spluttered the ancient. Then a moment later he added, "You be wantin' West Boxton. Camp's there. Three mile away. There ain't another train stoppin' here to-night," he added.
Mrs. Bindle looked at Bindle. Her lips had disappeared; but she said nothing. The arrangements had been entirely in her hands, and it was she who had purchased the tickets.
"How far did you say it was?" she demanded of the porter in a tone that seemed, as if by magic, to dry up the fountain of his mirth.
"Three mile, mum," he replied, making a shuffling movement in the direction of where Young Tom stood beside his levers, all unconscious of the splendid joke that had come to cheer his solitude. Mrs. Bindle, however, placed herself directly in his path, grim and determined. The man fell back a pace, casting an appealing look at Bindle.