THE SCOTCH MAILS 87 



that Dickens wrote something wonderful about Rugby 

 Junction, and that you once knew a man who kept 

 horses there and hunted from London very incon- 

 venient, but you are asleep again. 



This time fairly and placidly, with hardly a pause 

 in a vivid but pleasantly long dream, while you are 

 whirled unconscious past the flaming cities and lurid 

 wastes of the Black Country, to the open pure 

 country, and suddenly, for no reason, you are broad 

 awake ; a cold grey daylight is slanting through the 

 cracks of the blinds, and the sight of your bundle of 

 fishing rods in the corner reminds you that you have 

 left London and business, and are going to the moors. 



Ah, but it was the cold that woke you, for you are 

 chilly, and drag down your cape the old cape that has 

 sheltered you from so many driving showers and cut- 

 ting winds, that has been so often stained with blood 

 and peat, oil and sea water, tea and travel fold your- 

 self in it up to your chin, and lie there in the grey 

 dawn, thinking, listening to the occasional whistle of 

 the engine, wondering whereabouts you are and what 

 time it is, but supremely happy. 



Your whole nature seems to have undergone some 

 change. A purer air is filling your lungs, and though 

 you have a very slight sore throat, and are, generally 

 speaking, dirty, unkempt, and chippy, a wondrous calm 



