The train came to one of those sudden stops in which the hush caused
by the contrast between the rattle of the wheels and their silence is
almost painful. During these pauses one is conscious of conversation
in neighbouring compartments, without however hearing any distinct
words.
There were several of us, strangers to each other, who hitherto had
been minding our own business, but under the stress of this untoward
thing became companionable.
A man at each window craned his body out, but withdrew it without
information.
"I hope," said another, "there's not an accident."
"I have always heard," said a fourth, "that in a railway accident
presence of mind is not so valuable as absence of body"--getting off
this ancient pleasantry as though it were his own.
The motionlessness of the train was so absolute as to be
disconcerting; also a scandal. The business of trains, between
stations, is to get on. We had paid our money, not for undue
stoppages, but for movement in the direction of our various goals;
and it was infamous.
Somebody said something of the kind.
"Better be held up now," said a sententious man, "than be killed for
want of prudence."
No one was prepared to deny this, but we resented its truth and
availed ourselves of a true-born free Briton's right to doubt the
wisdom of those in authority. We all, in short, looked as though
we knew better than engine-driver, signalman or guard. That is our
_métier_.
Some moments, which, as in all delays on the line, seemed like hours,
passed and nothing happened. Looking out I saw heads and shoulders
protruding from every window, with curiosity stamped on all their
curves.
"They should tell us what's the matter," said an impatient man.
"That's one of the stupid things in England--no one ever tells you
what's wrong. No tact in this country--no imagination."
We all agreed. No imagination. It was the national curse.
"And yet," said another man with a smile, "we get there."
"Ah! that's our luck," said the impatient man. "We have luck far
beyond our deserts." He was very cross about it.
Again the first man to speak hoped it was not an accident; and again
the second man, fearing that someone might have missed it, repeated
the old jest about presence of mind and absence of body.
"Talking of presence of mind," said a man who had not yet spoken,
emerging from his book, "an odd thing happened to me not so very long
ago--since the War--and, as it chances, happened in a railway carriage
too--as it might be in this. It is a story against a friend of mine,
and I hope he's wiser now, but I'll tell it to you."
We had not asked for his story but we made ourselves up to listen.
"It was during the early days of the War," he said, "before some of us
had learned better, and my friend and I were travelling to the North.
He is a very good fellow, but a little hasty, and a little too much
disposed to think everyone wrong but himself. Opposite us was a man
hidden behind a newspaper, all that was visible of him being a huge
pair of legs in knickerbockers, between which was a bag of golf-clubs.
"My friend at that time was not only suspicious of everyone's
patriotism but a deadly foe of golf. He even went so far as to call it
Scotch croquet and other contemptuous names. I saw him watching the
clubs and the paper and speculating on the age of the man, whose legs
were, I admit, noticeably young, and he drew my attention to him
too--by nudges and whispers. Obviously this was a shirker.
"For a while my friend contented himself with half-suppressed snorts
and other signs of disapproval, but at last he could hold himself in
no longer. Leaning forward he tapped the man smartly on the knee, with
the question, 'Why aren't you in khaki?' It was an inquiry, you will
remember, that was being much put at the time--before compulsion came
in.
"We all--there were two or three other people in the compartment--felt
that this was going too far; and I knew it only too well when the man
lowered his paper to see what was happening and revealed an elderly
face with a grey beard absolutely out of keeping with those vigorous
legs.
"To my intense relief, however, he seemed to have been too much
engrossed by his paper to have heard. At any rate he asked my friend
to repeat his remark.
"Here, you will agree, was, if ever, an opening for what we call
presence of mind.
"My friend, like myself, had been so taken aback by the apparition of
more than middle age which confronted him when the paper was lowered
that for the moment he could say nothing; the other passengers were in
an ecstasy of anticipation; the man himself, a formidable antagonist
if he became nasty, waited for the reply with a non-committal
expression which might conceal pugnacity and might genuinely have
resulted from not hearing and desiring to hear.
"And then occurred one of the most admirable instances of
resourcefulness in history. With an effort of self-collection and
a readiness for which I shall always honour him, my friend said,
speaking with precise clearness, 'I beg your pardon, Sir, but,
mistaking you for a golfing friend of mine at Babbacombe, I asked
you why you were not in Torquay. I offer my apologies.'
"At these words the golfer bowed and resumed his paper, the other
passengers ceased for the moment to have the faintest interest in a
life which was nothing but Dead Sea fruit, and my friend uttered a
sigh of relief as he registered a vow never to be a meddlesome idiot
again. But he looked years older."
* * * * *
[Illustration: UNCENSORED NEWS FROM FRANCE.
_Visitor._ "And is your brother still in France?"
_Little Girl._ "Yes."
_Visitor._ "And what part of France is he in?"
_Little Girl._ "He says he's in the Pink."]
* * * * *