"Well, I am blessed!" exclaimed the porter, and lifted him out.
Tony was dreadfully dirty. The heat, the
dust, the tears he had shed when he woke up with the putting in of luggage at the junction and couldn't understand what had happened to him, all combined to make him about the most miserable-looking and disreputable small boy you could imagine. He had left his hat behind the milk-cans.
Jan had gone out of the station. She had passed Miles blindly, and her face caused that young man to whistle softly, just once. Then he dashed after her.
"Your haunt bin askin' for you," the old porter said to Tony. "'Peared to me she was a bit worried-like."
Tony moved stiffly down the little station, the old porter following with Miles' luggage on a truck.
The ticket-collector stood in the doorway. Tony, of course, had none. "Don't you say nothin'," whispered the old porter. "'Is haunt'll make it good; there's some sort of a misteree."
Tony felt queer and giddy. Jan, already in her little pony-trap, had started to drive away. Miles, waiting for his baggage beside his uncle's car, saw the dejected little figure appear in the station entrance.
He let fly a real barrack-square bellow after Jan, and she pulled up.
She looked back and saw the reason for Captain Middleton's amazing roar.