MY SUNDAY AT HOME
scarcely less loud, the drone of the bumblebees in the wallflowers up the bank. My companion thrust his head through the window and sniffed luxuriously.
"Where are we now?" said he.
"In Wiltshire," said I.
"Ah! A man ought to be able to write novels with his left hand in a country like this. Well, well! And so this is about Tess's country, ain't it? I feel just as if I were in a book. Say, the conduc—the guard has something on his mind. What 's he getting at?"
The splendid badged and belted guard was striding up the platform at the regulation official pace, and in the regulation official voice was saying at each door:
"Has any gentleman here a bottle of medicine? A gentleman has taken a bottle of poison (laudanum) by mistake."
Between each five paces he looked at an official telegram in his hand, refreshed his memory, and said his say. The dreamy look on my companion's face—he had gone far away with Tess—passed with the speed of a snap-shutter. After the manner of his countrymen, he had risen to the situation, jerked his bag down from the overhead rail, opened it, and I heard the click of bottles. "Find out where the man is," he said briefly. "I 've got something here that will fix him—if he can swallow still."
Swiftly I fled up the line of carriages in the wake of the guard. There was clamour in a rear compartment—the voice of one bellowing to be let out, and the feet of one who kicked. With the tail of my eye I saw the New York doctor hastening thither, bearing in his hand
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