imitation.

Just as our travellers neared the town, the screech of a railway whistle
resounded towards the right,--a long train rushed from the jaws of a
tunnel and shot into the neighbouring station.

"How lucky!" exclaimed Waife; "make haste, my dear!"

Was he going to take the train? Pshaw! he was at his journey's end.
He was going to mix with the throng that would soon stream through those
white gates into the town; he was going to purloin the respectable
appearance of a passenger by the train. And so well did he act the part
of a bewildered stranger just vomited forth into unfamiliar places by one
of those panting steam monsters,--so artfully, amidst the busy
competition of nudging elbows, over-bearing shoulders, and the
impedimenta of carpet-bags, portmanteaus, babies in arms, and shin-
assailing trucks, did he look round, consequentially, on the /qui vive/,
turning his one eye, now on Sophy, now on Sir Isaac, and griping his
bundle to his breast as if he suspected all his neighbours to be Thugs,
condottieri, and swellmob,--that in an instant fly-men, omnibus drivers,
cads, and porters marked him for their own. "Gatesboro' Arms," "Spread
Eagle," "Royal Hotel," "Saracen's Head; very comfortable, centre of High
Street, opposite the Town Hall,"--were shouted, bawled, whispered, or
whined into his ear.

"Is there an honest porter?" asked the Comedian, piteously. An Irishman
presented himself. "And is it meself can serve your honour?"--"Take this
bundle, and walk on before me to the High Street."--"Could not I take the
bundle, Grandfather? The man will charge so much," said the prudent
Sophy. "Hush! you indeed!" said the Pere Noble, as if addressing an