I managed to struggle out of my seat.
"Thank you, Sir," said the man. "Sit down, Em'ly. That's better. Now you can 'old the kid. Shut up, 'Enry, will you?"
I looked for Henry and found him wedged in a forest of legs.
"I think he's afraid of being trodden on," I said.
We managed, with some effort, to extract the child and make him a little more comfortable. His father turned with a sigh of relief to me.
"Awful business travellin' with kids nowadays, ain't it?" he said.
"I can quite believe it," I said.
"Bad enough anywhere," he went on, "but on this line—well—and they stick up placards tellin' you to be patient. Patient! With a wife and two kids, and them young jackanapes at Victoria a-howling at you all the time. If there's one thing I 'ate it's bein' 'ustled." He laughed resentfully. "'Come on, get a move on.' 'Jump to it!' Shoutin' and howlin' till you don't know whether you're gettin' on or gettin' orf. Anybody'd think we was a lot of blinkin' animals."
Something clicked inside my head (I hesitate to suggest what) and the carriage and the swaying people went out of focus.