I seemed to hear the chink of glasses ... a voice murmured, “A pretty safe thing to bet on.”

Then in a dreamy sort of manner I realised that Fate had delivered Westaby Jones into my hands.  When we were within twenty miles of London I opened the campaign.  I grossly abused the line on which we were travelling and suggested that anybody could make a fortune by assuming that its best train would roll in well after the scheduled time.

Westaby Jones, having privily ascertained that the engine-driver had a minute or so in hand, immediately pinned me down to what he thought (but wisely did not say) were the wild inaccuracies of an imbecile.  He did it to the extent of twenty-five pounds, and I sat back with the comfortable feeling of a man who will shortly have a small legacy to expend.  At the moment which I had calculated to be most auspicious I suddenly threw off the semblance of boredom, rose up, lurched across the carriage and pulled the communication cord. (For the benefit of those who have not done this I may say that the cord comes away pleasantly in the hand and, at the same time, gives one a piquant feeling of unofficial responsibility.) Westaby Jones was, for a stockbroker, obviously astonished.

“What on earth are you doing?” he exclaimed.

“Sit down,” I said; “this is my improved exerciser.”

“But you’ll stop the train,” he shouted.

“Never mind,” I replied; “what’s a fine of five pounds compared to physical fitness?  Besides,” I added significantly, “it may be a good investment after all.”

For perhaps twenty seconds there was the silent tension of expectation in the air and then I realised with a shock that the train did not show any signs of slackening speed.  It was, if anything, going faster.  I snatched frantically at the cord and pulled about half-a-furlong into the carriage.  We flashed past Ealing like a rocket, and I desperately drew in coils and coils of the communicator until I and Westaby Jones resembled the Laocoon.  It was no good.  Smoothly and irresistibly we glided into the terminus and drew up at the platform three minutes ahead of time.

I have paid Westaby Jones, who was unmannerly enough to look pleased.  I have also corresponded with the railway company, claiming damages on the grounds of culpable negligence.  Unfortunately they require more evidence than I am prepared to supply of the reasonable urgency of my action.

* * * * *

From a theatre programme:—­

    “The name of the actual and responsible Manager of the
    premises must be printed at least once during every
    performance to ensure its being in proper order.”

So that explains the noise going on behind the scenes.

* * * * *

NATURE NOTES.

The Cuckoo has arrived and will sing as announced.

* * * * *