e. When at last I had got my ticket the train was due
out.

"Jump in anywhere," said the porter; "I'll see that your luggage goes."

The carriages were crammed full. I raced down the platform till I saw
room for one, and then tore open the door, an sank into my seat as the
train steamed out of the station.

I looked round for sympathy at my narrow escape, but my
fellow-travellers were evidently one party. They looked at me coldly, as
at an unwelcome intruder, and drew more closely together, discussing the
day's doings; so I curled up in my corner and gave myself up to
anticipations of the holidays.

These were so engrossing that I took no count of the stations we passed
through. I was just picturing to myself the delights of a long ride on
the pony, when, to my amazement the stopping of the train was followed
by the loud exhortation:

"All change here!"

"Why, where are we?" I asked, looking up bewildered.

"At Lowford," replied one of my fellow-passengers.

But they gathered up their parcels, and swept out of the carriage
without a question as to my destination.

I seized on a porter.

"How did I get here?" I asked him; "I was going to Upperton. What has
happened?"

"Upperton, was you?" said the man. "Why, you must ha' got into the slip
carriage for Lowford. I s'pose 'twas a smartish crowd at Paddin'ton."

"It was," I replied, "and I hadn't time to ask if I was right. I suppose
my luggage has gone on. But what can I do now? How far is it to
Upperton? Is there another train?"

"Well, no, there ain't another train, not to-night. It's a matter of
fifteen mile to Upperton by the road."

"Which way is it?"

"Well, you couldn't miss it, that goes straight on pretty nigh all the
way. You've only got to follow the telegraph-postes till you comes to
the "Leather Bottle," and then you turns to the right."

"I know my way from there."

"But you could never walk all that way to-night. You'd better by half
stay at the hotel, and go on by rail in the morning."

"I'll wire to them at home to drive along the road and meet me, and I'll
walk on till they do."

"Well, it's fine, and I dessay they'll meet you more'n half way, but
'tis a lonely road this time o' night."

"I'm not afraid," said I, and walked off briskly.

I bought a couple of buns in a baker's shop, and went on to the
telegraph office--only to be told it was just after eight o'clock, and
they could send no message that night.

I turned out my p