“Very simply, because it happens to have snapped the stalk of this flower—scabious, don’t they call ’em—which isn’t dead yet. The ball was right on top when I found it. I’m hanged if that ball fell there more than twenty-four hours ago.”
“I say, we ought to be getting back to Oatvile if we’re going to catch that train,” said Gordon. “It’s half-past four already, and we’ve got to take to the path before we come in sight of the signal-box. The signalman doesn’t really mind, but he has to pretend to.”
Gordon was one of those men who are always too early for trains. As a matter of fact they got into Paston Oatvile station before the 3.47 from London was signalled. The 4.50 from Paston Oatvile had to connect with it for the sake of passengers going on to Paston Whitchurch or Binver, and was still wandering up and down in a siding, flirting with a couple of milk-vans and apparently enjoying itself. The platform was nearly bare of passengers, a fact on which Reeves artfully commented to an apathetic porter.
“Not many travelling? You wait till the London train comes in, sir; there’s always plenty in that as change here.”
“I suppose it’s the first train people can get away from business by, eh?”
“That’s right, sir; there ain’t nothing else stops here after the midday train. Of course there’s the fast train to Binver, but that passes through ’ere. You travellin’, sir?”
“Just to Binver. Hullo, there’s the booking-office opening at last. D’you mind getting two firsts for Binver, Gordon? Very sad thing that, about Mr. Brotherhood,” he went on to the porter.
“That’s right, sir; very melancholy thing, sir.”
“I suppose you didn’t see him get on to the train?”
“There’s such a lot of ’em, sir, you don’t notice ’em, not the ones that travel every day. And Mr. Brotherhood, ’e was a man as ’adn’t many words for anybody. Though of course there’s some as is different; d’you know Mr. Davenant, sir, up at the Hatcheries? He’s a nice gentleman, that is, has a word for everybody. I seed ’im getting off of the London train, and ’e asked me after my bit of garden—nothing stuck-up about ’im. Excuse me, sir.” And, as the London train swung into view, he proceeded up and down the platform making a noise something like Paston Oatvile, for the information of anybody who could not read notice-boards.