cans, banged my door, and went whistling downstairs. The porter
at the foot told me to shut my jaw, which sounded as if my make-up
was adequate.

At first I thought there was nobody in the street. Then I caught
sight of a policeman a hundred yards down, and a loafer shuffling
past on the other side. Some impulse made me raise my eyes to the
house opposite, and there at a first-floor window was a face. As the
loafer passed he looked up, and I fancied a signal was exchanged.

I crossed the street, whistling gaily and imitating the jaunty
swing of the milkman. Then I took the first side street, and went
up a left-hand turning which led past a bit of vacant ground. There
was no one in the little street, so I dropped the milk-cans inside the
hoarding and sent the cap and overall after them. I had only just
put on my cloth cap when a postman came round the corner. I gave
him good morning and he answered me unsuspiciously. At the
moment the clock of a neighbouring church struck the hour of seven.

There was not a second to spare. As soon as I got to Euston
Road I took to my heels and ran. The clock at Euston Station
showed five minutes past the hour. At St Pancras I had no time to
take a ticket, let alone that I had not settled upon my destination. A
porter told me the platform, and as I entered it I saw the train
already in motion. Two station officials blocked the way, but I
dodged them and clambered into the last carriage.

Three minutes later, as we were roaring through the northern
tunnels, an irate guard interviewed me. He wrote out for me a
ticket to Newton-Stewart, a name which had suddenly come back