from the train at his suggestion would inevitably ask the same question.
As the train gathered speed, the solitary passenger found himself wondering whether or no he had been wise in disregarding the advice officially tendered. There was something about the station-master, he decided, that had irritated him. He disliked taking advice from men who, because they were fair, spared the use of a razor. It was almost as bad as not washing your neck because you are addicted to high collars.
He had been warned at Liverpool Street that the strike would begin at ten o'clock, and that it was more than doubtful if the train would get through to Norwich, its destination. Anxious and misguided officials even refused to book beyond Upper Saxton, where they were due at 9.58; but the train was late, and on arrival at Bittleborough the station-master had become almost hysterical in his efforts to thwart the N.U.R., which he hated.
Arguing that the leaving of trains derelict was against all precedent, and anxious to get on to Cromer, where the Grand Garden Hotel had a room booked for "James Smith, Esq.," the passenger had decided to carry on. Once at Norwich, he knew he could get a car, or a taxicab, to run him to his destination.
Now that he was committed to the adventure, he found himself curious to see what actually would happen at ten o'clock. At least he could sleep in the first-class compartment he occupied. He had known less comfortable quarters in France, during the Somme battles for instance.
"James Smith!" How familiar the old name had seemed as he added it to the telegraph form. "Private James Smith." Why had he given the name to the
