Arthur arrived in London at one minute past two. He got out of the train
with no plan. The one feasible enterprise seemed to be that of suicide.
"Come on, now," said a voice--a voice that staggered Arthur. It was a
man with a crutch who spoke. It was Simeon. "Come on, quick, and don't
talk too much! To the hotel first." Simeon hobbled forward rapidly, and
somehow (he could not explain how) the anvil and pincers had left
Arthur.
"I got hold of a milk-cart with a sharpened horse, and drove to Knype.
Horse fell once, but he picked himself up again. Cost me a sovereign.
Only just caught the train. Shouldn't have caught it if they hadn't sent
off the Birmingham part before the London part. I was astonished, I can
tell you, not to find you at Euston. Went to the hotel. Found 'em all
waiting, of course, and practically weeping over a telegram from you.
However, I soon arranged things. Had to buy a crutch.... Here, boy,
lift!" They were in the hotel.
On a bed all Arthur's finest clothes were laid out. The famous trunk was
at the foot of the bed.
"Quick!"
"But look here!" Arthur remonstrated. "It's after two now.
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