The city of Winchester is famed for a cathedral, a bishop¹ — but he was unfortunately killed some years ago while riding — a public school, a considerable assortment² of the military, and the deliberate passage of the trains of the London and South-Western line. These and many similar associations would have doubtless crowded on the mind of Joseph Finsbury; but his spirit had at that time flitted from the railway compartment⁴ to a heaven of populous⁵ lecture-halls and endless oratory⁶. His body, in the meanwhile, lay doubled on the cushions, the forage-cap rakishly tilted⁷ back after the fashion of those that lie in wait for nursery-maids, the poor old face quiescent⁸, one arm clutching to his heart Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper.

To him, thus unconscious, enter and exeunt again a pair of voyagers. These two had saved the train and no more. A tandem⁹ urged to its last speed, an act of something closely bordering on brigandage¹⁰ at the ticket office, and a spasm¹¹ of running, had brought them on the platform just as the engine uttered its departing snort. There was but one carriage easily within their reach; and they had sprung into it, and the leader and elder already had his feet upon the floor, when he observed Mr Finsbury.

‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘Uncle Joseph! This’ll never do.’

And he backed out, almost upsetting his companion, and once more closed the door upon the sleeping patriarch.

The next moment the pair had jumped into the baggage van.

‘What’s the row about your Uncle Joseph?’

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