It was with mixed feelings that he groped for his luggage. He was
conscious of wanting a seat and a breakfast; he was also conscious of
wanting to look at the station he was leaving, which he dimly felt he
might never see again; and he was, above all, conscious that he looked a
fool and would like not to. In such a turmoil he lugged at the gladstone
and got it into a corner, and then turned to the window in the cleared
space with a determination. In turning he caught the Captain's face stuck
round the little door. It was withdrawn at once, but came out again, and
he heard for the second time the unfamiliar title:

"Say, padre; come in here. There's room after all."

Peter felt cheered. He staggered to the door, and found the others busy
making room. A subaltern of the A.S.C. gripped his small attaché case and
swung it up on to the rack. The South African pulled a British warm off
the vacant seat and reached out for the suit-case. And the third man, with
the rank of a Major and the badge of a bursting bomb, struck a match and
paused as he lit a cigarette to jerk out:

"Damned full train! We ought to have missed it, Donovan."

"It's a good stunt that, if too many blighters don't try it on," observed
the subaltern, reaching for Peter's warm. "But they did my last leave,
and I got the devil of a choking off from the brass-hat in charge. It's
the Staff train, and they only take Prime Ministers, journalists, and
trade-union officials in addition. How's that, padre?"

"Thanks," said Peter, subsiding. "It's jolly good of you to take me in. I
thought I'd got to stand from here to Folkestone."