“Not be so full after Reading,” said the laconic Mr. Trotsky, coldly accepting a substantial tip for services rendered.
“But—but there’s no place for my luggage.”
As Miss Fur Coat closed her bag she observed that a rather pretty gray-eyed mouse of a thing bearing a large wickerwork arrangement in one hand and an umbrella and a pilgrim basket in the other was standing at bay. She was literally standing at bay.
“There is room here, I believe.” The air of Miss Fur Coat was cautious and detached, but not unfriendly.
“But this is a first,” said Miss Gray Eyes, “and I have only a third-class ticket.”
“But if there’s no room?” Miss Fur Coat turned a gesture of immensely practical calm upon Mr. Trotsky.
“Better get in, I should think.” The servant of the railway company made the concession to the two honest half-crowns in his palm. “Inspector’ll be along in a minute. Talk to him.”
Mr. Trotsky, having done his duty to the public, turned augustly on his heel to make a private and independent examination of the engine. His advice, however, in the sight of the third-class passenger, seemed sound enough to put into practice. Or, perhaps, it would be more just to say that the other lady put it in practice for her. Miss Fur Coat was curiously quiet and unhurried in all her movements. She was absolutely cool, physically and mentally cool, in spite of the temperature of Platform Three and the mass of fur round her neck, whereas poor little Miss Gray Eyes could hardly breathe in her thin green ulster. And the slow-moving will of Miss Fur Coat had an almost dangerous momentum. Before the third class passenger realized what had happened, she had been taken charge of.
“Go first, Pikey. Clear a seat for this lady.”
Slightly Olympian if you like, but tremendously effective. Pikey, who looked fully capable of swallowing Miss Gray Eyes whole with a single motion of her large and powerful jaws, entered the carriage, and calmly and competently transferred a plaid traveling rug and a leather-handled umbrella from one seat to the next.