Bobbie shook his head, and the porter hurried on in search of a more encumbered traveller. Bobbie, walking down the crowded platform to the barrier, found the word luggage remaining in his mind. It recalled evenings with Bat Miller at stations on the other side of the City, followed sometimes by an interesting review of the contents of a portmanteau or a lady’s dressing-case in Ely Place. Around the guard’s van, now disgorging its contents hurriedly and confusedly, passengers stood as though at an auction, and when they saw an article of luggage in tune with their desires, held up a hand, and the article being knocked down to them, they bore it off without further question. In the centre, one of the busy porters acting as auctioneer held up a bright brown portmanteau with initials painted boldly.
“Anybody claim this?” demanded the harried porter. “Anybody claim a bag with—. A bundle of rugs, lady? I’ll look after it in ’alf a moment, if you’ll only leave off prodding me in the back with that gamp of yours.”
“I want,” said Bobbie’s voice, “a bag marked L. C. E.”
“Why,” grumbled the porter, handing it over to Bobbie, “’ere ’ave I been the last five minutes trying to find a owner for it? Want a cab?”
“No,” said Bobbie, “I’ll carry it.”
“It’s a bit lumpy,” remarked the porter warningly.
“I know,” said the boy.
He gave up his ticket at the barrier and lugged the heavy bag across to a departure platform.
It was, as the porter had said, a heavy bag, and anxious as the boy felt to get away with it, he found himself obliged to rest for a moment when he had reached the platform. Then he started on again, the heavy portmanteau bumping against his knee. Through his alert little head a scheme had already danced; a scheme necessitating an empty compartment to permit of a selection from the articles which the bag contained, and the disposal of the bag itself. This would have the advantage of deferring the awkward duty of returning to the Cottage Homes that day. A nurse walked by on the platform, with flowing cloak and white bands; Bobbie’s mind was recalled to Sister Margaret. From Sister Margaret his thoughts went to his other friends. He sat down on the portmanteau; his breath came quickly.
“They’d all look pretty straight,” he said to himself, “if they knew.” He rose slowly, and gripped the stout leather handles of the bag. “’Owever, I ain’t going to be copped. There’s plenty that do a thing like this quietly and never so much as—”