rging their loads at the steps; now the last had rolled away
empty.

"You might find one inside the station by the arrival platform," he
suggested; "but there'll be sure to be one comin' up here in another
minute, sir, if you like to wait."

Paul thought the other course might be the longer one, and decided to
stay where he was. So he walked into the lofty hall in which the booking
offices are placed and waited there by the huge fire that blazed in the
stove until he should hear the cab arrive which could take him back to
Westbourne Terrace.

One or two trains were about to start, and the place was full. There
were several Cambridge men "going up" after the Christmas vacation, in
every variety of ulster; some tugging at refractory white terriers, one
or two entrusting bicycles to dubious porters with many cautions and
directions. There were burly old farmers going back to their quiet
countryside, flushed with the prestige of a successful stand under
cross-examination in some witness-box at the Law Courts; to tell and
retell the story over hill and dale, in the market-place and
bar-parlour, every week for the rest of their honest lives. There was
the usual pantomime "rally" on a mild scale, with real frantic
passengers, and porters, and trucks, and trays of lighted lamps.

Presently, out of the crowd and confusion, a small boy in a thick pilot
jacket and an immensely tall hat, whom Paul had observed looking at him
intently for some time, walked up to the stove and greeted him
familiarly.

"Hallo, Bultitude!" he said, "I thought it was you. Here we are again,
eh? Ugh!" and he giggled dismally.

He was a pale-faced boy with freckles, very light green eyes, long,
rather ragged black hair, a slouching walk, and a smile half-simpering,
half-impudent.

Mr. Bultitude was greatly staggered by the presumption of so small a boy
venturing to address him in this way. He could only stare haughtily.

"You might find a word to say to a fellow!" said the boy in an aggrieved
tone. "Look here; come and get your luggage labelled."

"I don't want it labelled," said Paul stiffly, feeling bound to say
something. "I'm waiting for a cab to take me home again."

The other gave a loud whistle. "That'll make it rather a short term,
won't it, if you're going home for the holidays already? You're a cool
chap, Bultitude! If I were to go back to my governor now, he wouldn't
see it. It would put him in no end of a bait. But you're chaffing-