Grave men in uniform paraded the platform,
glancing occasionally at their watches. The engine-driver watched from
his cabin for the waving of the green flag which would authorise him to
push over his levers and start the train. The great moment had almost
arrived. The guard held his whistle to his lips, and had the green
flag ready to be unfurled, in his left hand. Then a totally
unexpected, almost an unprecedented, thing occurred. A passenger
walked into the station and approached the train with the evident
intention of getting into it. He was a clergyman, shabbily dressed,
imperfectly shaved, red-haired, and wearing a red moustache. He
carried a battered Gladstone bag in one hand. The guard glanced at him
and then distended his cheeks with air, meaning to blow his whistle.
"Hold on a minute," said the clergyman. "I'm thinking of travelling by
this train."
The audacity of this statement shook the self-possession of the guard.
"Can't wait," he said. "Time's up. You ought to have been here
sooner."
To say this he was obliged to take the whistle from his lips; and the
engine-driver, who had a strict sense of duty, was unable to start.
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