It was an hour's easy walking between Horton, the nearest station to
Beckford, and the College. Gethryn, who was rather tired after his
exertions at the nets, took it very easily, and when he arrived at his
destination the church clock was striking four.

'Is the three-fifty-six in yet?' he asked of the solitary porter who
ministered to the needs of the traveller at Horton station.

'Just a-coming in now, zur,' said the porter, adding, in a sort of
inspired frenzy: ''Orton! 'Orton stertion! 'Orton!' and ringing a bell
with immense enthusiasm and vigour.

Gethryn strolled to the gate, where the station-master's son stood at
the receipt of custom to collect the tickets. His uncle was to arrive
by this train, and if he did so arrive, must of necessity pass this way
before leaving the platform. The train panted in, pulled up, whistled,
and puffed out again, leaving three people behind it. One of these was
a woman of sixty (approximately), the second a small girl of ten, the
third a young gentleman in a top hat and Etons, who carried a bag, and
looked as if he had seen the hollowness of things, for his face wore a
bored, supercilious look. His uncle had evidently not arrived, unless
he had come disguised as an old woman, an act of which Gethryn refused
to believe him capable.

He enquired as to the next train that was expected to arrive from
London. The station-master's son was not sure, but would ask the
porter, whose name it appeared was Johnny. Johnny gave the correct
answer without an effort. 'Seven-thirty it was, sir, except on
Saturdays, when it was eight o'clock.'