Fortunately Sam Natly’s wicked resolve to indulge in undutiful slumber did not result in evil on this occasion, although it did result in something rather surprising. It might have been far otherwise had Sam been a pointsman!
In order to enjoy fully the half-hour which he meant to snatch from duty, Sam entered a first-class carriage which stood on a siding, and, creeping under a seat, laid himself out at full length, pillowing his head on his arm. Tired men don’t require feather-beds. He was sound asleep in two minutes. It so happened that, three-quarters of an hour afterwards, an extra first-class carriage was wanted to add to the train which John Marrot was to “horse” on its arrival at Clatterby. The carriage in which Sam lay was selected for the purpose, drawn out, and attached to the train. Tired men are not easily awakened. Sam knew nothing of this change in his sleeping apartment.
Meanwhile Clatterby station became alive with travellers. The train drew up to the platform. Some passengers got out; others got in. The engine which brought it there, being in need of rest, coal, and water, moved off to the shed. John Marrot with his lieutenant, Garvie, moved to the front on his iron horse, looking as calm and sedate in his conscious power as his horse looked heavy and unyielding in its stolidity. Never did two creatures more thoroughly belie themselves by their looks. The latent power of the iron horse could have shot it forth like an arrow from a bow, or have blown the whole station to atoms. The smouldering fires in John’s manly breast could have raised him from a begrimed, somewhat sluggish, driver to a brilliant hero.
Some of the characters who have already been introduced at Clatterby station were there on this occasion also. Mr Sharp was there, looking meditative as usual, and sauntering as though he had nothing particular to do. Our tall superlative fop with the sleepy eyes and long whiskers was also there with his friend of the checked trousers. Mr Sharp felt a strong desire to pommel these fops, because he had found them very difficult to deal with in regard to compensation, the fop with the checked trousers having claimed, and finally obtained, an unreasonably large sum for the trifling injury done to his eye on the occasion of the accident at Langrye station. Mr Sharp could not however, gratify his desire. On the contrary, when the checked trousers remarked in passing that it was “vewy disagweeable weather,” he felt constrained to admit, civilly enough, that it was.
The two fops had a friend with them who was not a fop, but a plain, practical-looking man, with a forbidding countenance, and a large, tall, powerful frame. These three retired a little apart from the bustle of the station, and whispered together in earnest tones. Their names were the reverse of romantic, for the fop with the checked trousers was addressed as Smith, he with the long whiskers as Jenkins, and the large man as Thomson.
“Are you sure he is to go by this train?” asked Thomson, somewhat gruffly.
“Quite sure. There can be no mistake about it,” replied Jenkins, from whose speech, strange to say, the lisp and drawl had suddenly disappeared.
“And how are you sure of knowing him, if, as you say, you have never seen him?” asked Thomson.
“By the bag, of course,” answered Smith, whose drawl had also disappeared unaccountably; “we have got a minute description of the money-bag which he has had made peculiarly commonplace and shabby on purpose. It is black leather but very strong, with an unusually thick flat handle.”
“He’s very late,” observed Thomson, moving uneasily, and glancing at the clock as the moment of departure drew near.