"There is something else."
"What?"
"Clouds—ha, ha, ha, ha!"
Lord Stafford looked disgustedly out at the scurrying white masses.
"Do you want h'anything, your Lordship?"
"It's about time you showed up, Flash. Unstrap that plaid—it's beastly cold."
"It h'is, your Lordship—compared to the 'eat in New York," carefully tucking Lord Stafford into the plaid. Flash was a young fellow, of the ordinary English cockney type.
The train labored on painfully up into the heart of the mountains. Lord Stafford slept while his nephew smoked and mused, watching the clouds, barely perceptible now in the fading light.
They felt a jerk, the train stopped suddenly. Flash put his head in, "We're a h'our and a 'alf late, your Lordship. We won't h'arrive until h'eight o'clock."
"What an infernal nuisance."