ation-master at a small station somewhere on the Yorkshire moors. He
had done it when nothing else turned up, without waiting to consult his
father. But the Rector had not forbidden him when he heard. Steadiness
and punctuality had always been Ned's strong points, so that, though he
had not taken his degree at the university, and his old masters had said
they were not surprised to hear it, he might be trusted not to wreck
trains, slay their passengers, and find himself tried for manslaughter.
The difficulty was to fancy a big, slow fellow like Ned rushing here and
there in a noisy, fussy little station. After all, it would only be
noisy and fussy at long intervals, and on rare occasions, "somewhere on
the Yorkshire moors." Ned might have time and space to walk about in.
But what of the uniform? Would the poor boy--they had all known him as a
boy--who had once cherished the notion of going into the army, have to
wear a railway company's coat and a station-master's cap? How funny it
sounded! Well, not altogether funny. There were Dora and May crying at
the bare anticipation. If they were ever on the Yorkshire moors, and had
to greet Ned in this extraordinary guise, it would be awkward for all
parties, to say the least. What were they thinking of? Of course they
would be proud to greet him when he was twice the man that he had ever
been. No doubt Cyril Carey would be glad to have Ned's chance; Cyril,
who had renounced his delicate plush vests and Indian gold chains and
charms, his loitering and dawdling, and taken to a shabby shooting-suit
and spade-husbandry. He was getting rid of his time and keeping out of
his mother's way by digging aimlessly in the garden. He was inquiring,
in a desultory fashion, all over Redcross for any opening in an office
which he could fill. He was not likely to find such an opening unless
it were made for him out of charity. He had not been trained to office
work, and he was far from having Ned Hewett's reputation for steadiness
and punctuality. If Tom Robinson should be the charitable man and ask
Cyril, a schoolfellow and college chum, to help him with his accounts,
the head of "Robinson's" would have to be at the trouble of running up
every column of figures over again. Cyril might ride to hounds and row
in a boat-race with the best; he might even have some elegant
acquaintance with the renaissance and old French, and be capable of
distinguishing himself in stately Latin verse, though that sound