"I am, young gentleman," he replied. "I'm looking up the names of those passengers who remembered me last Christmas."
Holcombe chuckled audibly. His companion, striving to hide his confusion, fumbled in his pocket.
"Sorry, guard——" he began.
"Quite all right, sir," interposed the guard, waving aside the proffered sixpence. "I take the will for the deed. When you come to Lynbury as a member of the Diplomatic Corpse (the guard knew Moke's ambitions, although his rendering of the title of that branch of the Civil Service was a trifle gruesome and wide of the mark), an' you, young gentleman (indicating Holcombe), as a full-blown captain, then perhaps, if I'm still here to see you, I'll drink your health in a bottle of Kentish-brewed ale—best in the world, bar none."
He pulled out and consulted a large silver watch.
"Time we're off, young gents," he announced, as the clanging of the station bell resounded along the now almost deserted platform.
"Slogger's missed it," declared Holcombe as the whistle blew.
With a jerk the little train started on its five-mile journey. Already the last carriage was half way down the platform when a loud shout of "Stand-back, sir!" attracted the two lads' attention.
The next instant the door was thrown open, and with an easy movement the missing Slogger swung himself into the compartment and waved a friendly salute to the baffled porter who had vainly attempted to detain him.
"By Jove, Slogger!" exclaimed Hoke, "you've cut it fine. Incurring penalties, too, under the company's bye-laws."