The train pulled up.
"Hallo!" said the elderly man. "This train is billed as a non-stop to Shereling. Why on earth——"
He leaned out of the window and beckoned the guard.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"The strike," the guard answered. "You see, sir, there are ten or fifteen thousand men on strike here just now, and it seems they've got a little out of 'and."
"But what," asked Tony's companion, effectually filling the window,—"what has that to do with the trains? Why——"
"You see, sir," continued the guard with an apologetic air, "they've got a bit out of 'and. I don't know the rights of it—they do say they're underpaid, though the employers say they spend their wages on whippet-racing. Anyway, they're out——"
"But the railway, man. What——"
The guard coughed.
"Some of them's a bit 'asty, sir, likewise uncontrollable. It seems that they broke into the publics about midnight and 'ave been making a night of it, so to speak. They've sent for the soldiers, but they 'aven't arrived yet. And they've tore up some of the track. The breakdown gang is repairing it, but it will be an hour or so before we can get on."