The train was beginning to slow down. Signs of returning animation
began to be noticeable among the sleepers. Aunty's eyes opened, stared
vacantly round, closed, and reopened. The niece woke, and started
instantly to attack a sausage roll. Albert and Ukridge slumbered on.

A whistle from the engine, and the train drew up at a station. Looking
out, I saw that it was Yeovil. There was a general exodus. Aunty
became instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels,
shook Albert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finally
heading a stampede out of the door.

The Irishman and his daughter also rose, and got out. I watched them
leave stoically. It would have been too much to expect that they
should be going any further.

"Where are we?" said Ukridge sleepily. "Yeovil? Not far now. I tell
you what it is, old horse, I could do with a drink."

With that remark he closed his eyes again, and returned to his
slumbers. And, as he did so, my eye, roving discontentedly over the
carriage, was caught by something lying in the far corner. It was "The
Manoeuvres of Arthur." The girl had left it behind.

I suppose what follows shows the vanity that obsesses young authors.
It did not even present itself to me as a tenable theory that the book
might have been left behind on purpose, as being of no further use to
the owner. It only occurred to me that, if I did not act swiftly, the
poor girl would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse or
vanity-case were trivial.