I
PEACE and her blessings were flowing already. All the same there
was a terrible crush at Belgravia. The congestion of passengers and
their luggage at the terminus of the B. S. W. was enough to daunt the
stoutest heart, but a girl in a sealskin coat with a skunk collar
standing at the bookstall on Platform Three was as calm and collected
as if the war was still going on. Outwardly at least she made no
concession to the fact that the Armistice had been signed three days.
She chose some newspapers and magazines and paid for them with an air
that almost treated money with the disdain it reserved for literature.
Then she moved towards a figure of sombre dignity standing between the
barrier and herself.
“Come on, Pikey,” she said.
A tall, griffin-like woman, craggy of feature but almost oppressively
respectable, followed her mistress dourly. The duenna carried a large,
queer-shaped, rather disreputable-looking dressing case whose faded
purple cover was adorned with a coronet. As their tickets were franked
at the barrier, these ladies were informed that “All stations beyond
Exeter” were up on the right.
In spite of such clear and explicit instructions, it was not easy to
get to all the stations beyond Exeter. Platform Three was a maelstrom
of almost every known community. There were Italians and Serbians,
Welshmen and such men, Japanese sailors and turbaned Hindoos; the
personal suite of President Masaryk; Tommies and poilus; American
tars and doughboys; British and Colonial officers, their kit and
appurtenances; and over and above all these were the members of the
traveling public which in other days had kept the railways running and
had paid the shareholders their dividends.
A cool head and a firm will were needed to get as far as the stations
beyond Exeter. And these undoubtedly belonged to the girl in the fur
coat. Her course was slow but it was calm and sure. With rare fixity
of will she pursued it despite the peace that had come so suddenly
upon the world. It was a very long train, but she was in no hurry
nor did she betray the least anxiety, although somewhere about the
middle--Salisbury and Devizes only--she cast a half-glance back to say
to her companion, “I don’t see _our_ porter, Pikey.”
To utter the word “porter” just then was either bravado or it was
inhuman optimism. But the act of faith was justified by the event, for
hardly had the lady of the fur coat made the remark when a figure in
corduroys almost miraculously emerged from the welter. Both travelers
had a doubt at first as to whether this rare bird was Trotsky himself
or merely a Sinn Fein delegate to the Peace Conference, so aloof yet
so grim was his manner. But at that moment there seemed to be no other
porter on Platform Three--it followed, therefore, that _their_ porter
it must be.
It was rather providential perhaps that the porter had been able to
find them, but he was by way of being a connoisseur in the human
female. He had not been employed at Belgravia for thirty-five years
without learning to sort out the various ranks and grades of a
heterogeneous society. As a matter of fact, there were only two grades
of society for Mr. Trotsky. One grade was worth while, the other was
not.
The progress of the party up Platform Three to all the stations beyond
Exeter was slow but, like fate, it was inevitable. They walked through,
over and beyond armed representatives of five continents, nursemaids
with babies and perambulators, not to mention remarkable women with
remarkable dogs, trolleys and milk cans and piles of luggage, until at
last they reached a compartment not far from the engine. It was notable
for the fact that it was two-thirds empty. Rugs, umbrellas and minor
portmanteaux claimed the unoccupied seats; those remaining were adorned
by two distinguished-looking gentlemen who, however, were reading
_The Times_ newspaper with an assiduity that definitely and finally
dissociated them from Mr. Trotsky and party.
The lady of the fur coat was in the act of opening her purse at the
carriage door when a wild, weak voice said, excitedly, “Oh, porter, can
you find me a place--_please_?”
On instinct Mr. Trotsky disregarded the appeal. There was frenzy in it;
and that fact alone made any examination of the overburdened, rather
hunted little creature at his elbow unnecessary. Dark fate itself could
not have turned a deafer ear than he.
“People are standing in all the thirds.” The piping, rather piteous
little note grew more insistent. “I _can’t_ stand all the way to
Clavering, St. Mary’s.”
“Not be so full after Reading,” said the laconic Mr. Trotsky, coldly
accepting a substantial tip for services rendered.
“But--but there’s no place for my luggage.”
As Miss Fur Coat closed her bag she observed that a rather pretty
gray-eyed mouse of a thing bearing a large wickerwork arrangement in
one hand and an umbrella and a pilgrim basket in the other was standing
at bay. She was literally standing at bay.
“There is room here, I believe.” The air of Miss Fur Coat was cautious
and detached, but not unfriendly.
“But this is a first,” said Miss Gray Eyes, “and I have only a
third-class ticket.”
“But if there’s no room?” Miss Fur Coat turned a gesture of immensely
practical calm upon Mr. Trotsky.
“Better get in, I should think.” The servant of the railway company
made the concession to the two honest half-crowns in his palm.
“Inspector’ll be along in a minute. Talk to him.”
Mr. Trotsky, having done his duty to the public, turned augustly on
his heel to make a private and independent examination of the engine.
His advice, however, in the sight of the third-class passenger,
seemed sound enough to put into practice. Or, perhaps, it would be
more just to say that the other lady put it in practice for her. Miss
Fur Coat was curiously quiet and unhurried in all her movements. She
was absolutely cool, physically and mentally cool, in spite of the
temperature of Platform Three and the mass of fur round her neck,
whereas poor little Miss Gray Eyes could hardly breathe in her thin
green ulster. And the slow-moving will of Miss Fur Coat had an almost
dangerous momentum. Before the third class passenger realized what had
happened, she had been taken charge of.
“Go first, Pikey. Clear a seat for this lady.”
Slightly Olympian if you like, but tremendously effective. Pikey,
who looked fully capable of swallowing Miss Gray Eyes whole with a
single motion of her large and powerful jaws, entered the carriage,
and calmly and competently transferred a plaid traveling rug and a
leather-handled umbrella from one seat to the next.
“Thank you so much--thank you _ever_ so much,” twittered the lady of
the green ulster, at the same time inadvertently barging the end of the
pilgrim basket into the middle of the middle prices on page eight of
the _Times_ newspaper.
A patient jobber from the oil market, en route to Croome Lodge for an
hour’s golf, looked gently at the green ulster, looked at it less in
anger than in divine resignation, over the top of his tortoise-shell
pince-nez. One had to rub shoulders with all sorts of queer people
these times! Still the Armistice was signed and Burmahs were up another
half crown.
“This train is already twelve minutes late.” Miss Fur Coat announced
the fact after a glance at almost the last thing in wrist watches on
almost the last thing in wrists, and then assumed the best seat in the
compartment, the one next the door with the back to the engine.
The tortoise-shell pince-nez peered over the top of Court and Society
on page six. It looked slowly up and down Miss Fur Coat and then
transferred an expert gaze to Pikey and the other lady. Before the head
office could register any conclusion on a matter which really did not
call for comment, a message was received from another department to
ask what price Shells had closed at. And there for the time being the
incident ended as far as the Oil Market was concerned--ended almost
before it began. For nothing whatever had happened, so it really did
not amount to an incident. All the same, something was about to happen.