The Window.
Henry Shapman Barker just had time to swallow his breakfast, bully his wife, sack the gardener, and catch the 10.30 up-train. Having accomplished all this successfully, and having, in addition, found a first-class compartment with no beastly human beings in it, he was as nearly as possible inclined to be in a good and satisfied temper. He slapped open his inoffensive morning paper, threw a furious eye over the foreign news, and began to read the principal leading article. At intervals he observed aloud, «Muck!» This was a habit of his when he read leading articles. It was not pretty exactly, but then Henry Shapman Barker did not go in for prettiness. He had just repeated the observation for the fifth time when the train drew up at Chiddleford (for Pigley).
The one porter of Chiddleford (for Pigley) opened the carriage door, which was bad. Augustus Sturt, a gentleman of imperial appearance, entered, which was worse. But these two outrages sank back into insignificant trifles when compared with what followed.
Augustus Sturt glared suspiciously at Henry Shapman Barker, whistled ostentatiously, crossed over to the far-side and let the window down. I am not exaggerating, and I mean what I say—he let the window down.
«Leave that window, alone, sir!» bellowed Barker.
