For comfort--and
also, perhaps, to hide this hump--he rested his back in the angle
by the window. He wore a black alpaca coat, a high stock, white
waistcoat, and trousers of shepherd's plaid. On these and a few other
trivial details I built a lazy hypothesis that he was a lawyer, and
unmarried.
Just before entering the station at Lostwithiel, our train passed
between the white gates of a level crossing. A moment before I had
caught sight of the George drooping from the church spire, and at the
crossing I saw it was regatta-day in the small town. The road was
thick with people and lined with sweet-standings; and by the near end
of the bridge a Punch-and-Judy show had just closed a performance. The
orchestra had unloosed his drum, and fallen to mopping the back of his
neck with the red handkerchief that had previously bound the panpipes
to his chin. A crowd still loitered around, and among it I noted
several men and women in black--ugly stains upon the pervading
sunshine.
The station platform was cram-full as we drew up, and it was clear at
once that all the carriages in the train would be besieged, without
regard to class.
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