THE SCOTCH MAIL' 1 85 



the trusty servant who remains in town, suddenly, 

 with no more warning than a short blast from the 

 pea-whistle of the smart guard, the great train begins 

 to glide slowly and smoothly away. As you pull up 

 the window, a shout of ' Good-bye ! ' from some less 

 fortunate person, seeing off a dear friend, rings along 

 the platform, and turning back into the well-lit 

 carriage you realise, as the train plunges into the 

 dark tunnel under Hampstead with a quickening 

 pace and an increasing rattle, that you are fairly 

 off. 



But you are very tired ; the last day's business 

 has been heavy and anxious, and you haven't yet 

 shaken off the clinging meshes of your work-a-day life. 

 Wearily you lean back in your seat, and as the 

 hoarse roar of the tunnels and the flying flashes of 

 the station lamps tell of the terrific pace at which 

 the train is now travelling, you sink, the end of your 

 cigar glowing fiercer in the dim light, into a lethargy 

 variously tinged with care and hope. Presently you 

 rouse yourself to make arrangements for the night, 

 hand your tickets to the civil 'conductor,' with in- 

 structions to wake you half an hour before Perth, 

 dispose your bed and wraps, and before darkening 

 the light pull down the window for a moment to sniff 

 an air that blows fresher and sweeter than St. Stephen's, 



