'No,' I replied, 'these carriages will be going to split off from the others that go on to London. The man said it would be all right for Hill Horton at the front. They often separate trains like that. I daresay we shall go a little way out of the station and come back again. You'll see. And he said—the first man, I mean—that we should have at least ten minutes to wait, and we've scarcely been two, so we may as well get in with you for a few minutes.'
'Yes, do,' said Margaret, 'but don't put my package up in the netted place, for fear I couldn't get it down again myself. The trains never stop long at our station.'
So we contented ourselves with leaving the red bundle on the seat beside her. It was lucky, I told her, that the carriage wasn't full, otherwise it would have had to go up in the rack, where it wouldn't have been very firm.
'It is so fat,' said Peterkin, solemnly.
'Something like you,' I said, at which we all laughed again, as if it was something very witty. We were still feeling rather excited, I think, and rather proud—at least I was—of having, so far, got on so well.
But before we had finished laughing, there came a startling surprise. The train suddenly began to move! We stared at each other. Then I remembered my own words a minute or two ago.
'It's all right,' I said, 'we'll back into the station again in a moment.'
Margaret and Peterkin laughed again, but rather nervously. At least, Margaret's laugh was not quite hearty; though, as for Peterkin, I think he was secretly delighted.
On we went—faster and faster, instead of slower. There was certainly no sign of 'backing.' I put my head out of the window. We were quite clear of the Junction by now, getting every instant more and more into the open country. At last I had to give in.
'We're off, I do believe,' I said. 'There's been some mistake about our waiting ten minutes. We're clear on the way to Hill Horton.'