On this particular morning Mr. Hobbs did not arrive upon the stroke of nine. Such an event had never been known to happen before. Catherine and Amelia and the other girls of the music department were thrilled with the romance of Mr. Hobbs’ non-arrival. In soft whispers they discussed what might possibly have happened to him. The previous evening he had left upon the stroke of six, seemingly in a state of complete normality, physical and mental. Had some dire fate overwhelmed him? Or—prosaic thought—had he overslept himself? ...
And then at a quarter past ten Mr. Hobbs entered the portals of the music department. His morning coat was marked by a chalky smudge, his tie was unsymmetrical, his moustache uncurled and his top hat considerably and conspicuously battered.
Was he drunk? The girls waited breathless for an explanation.
“There was an accident to the 8.42 at Liverpool Street,” he announced calmly. “It ran into the end of the platform.”
“Were you hurt?” Amelia asked him.
“I received no personal hurts,” he replied, “but my hat, as you see, is badly damaged.” And he pointed solemnly to the hat he held in his hand.
“Well, it’s quarter past ten now,” said one of the girls. “What did you do all that time?”
“I just went round to the company offices to lodge a complaint,” he answered quietly.
“What for?” said Catherine. “You weren’t hurt.”
“But my hat was,” he replied. “And I can’t afford to buy a new hat every time the company runs their train into the end of the platform.”