He amused himself by turning and returning the handle, putting his whole soul into the operation, and missing being projected into a murky space by the dispensation of a merciful Providence, and the skin of his tiny white teeth. The train emerged into the light, and pulled up again in the open space just eastward of St James’s Park Station. Kotah Lal snored peacefully. ‘My’s velly good not to wakle him,’ mused Tally Ho, as he slid out of the carriage and bumped on his little seat to the ground. ‘My will ’peak clossly to Blown--dis is a baddy tlain.’ He frowned as he picked himself up, and, shaking himself, took his grubby way almost under the train towards the engine. The engine-driver was looking ahead and turning on steam as Tally Ho caught him in profile. ‘_It’s not Blown_,’ he gasped, astonished, and the train moved on past a gaping atom of humanity. ‘’Top, ’top, you baddy tlain, my says ’top!’ But the train stopped not, and went on its way rejoicing into the cleaner parts of the city, bearing with it an unconsciously slumbering Hindu. Now the word ‘tears’ had not been in Tally Ho’s vocabulary this many a day. ‘Baddy tlain,’ he said, ‘’t has runned away wid my’s Kotah Lal,’ forgetting, perchance, that it was Tally Ho that had first deserted the train, and not the train Tally Ho. ‘My will catchee it!’ His small legs twinkled rapidly down the line of the train. But the train had the start, and was flourishing out of St James’s Park Station at the one end as Tally Ho trotted into it at the other. He laboured up the steep incline on to the platform as the tail light was swallowed up in the opposite blackness. Tally Ho stopped, at a loss what to do. ‘Velly baddy tlain,’ he panted, ‘my--’ here a small mustard Dandie Dinmont sniffed at his legs. ‘Oh! _what_ a nice doggie!’ said Tally Ho, with characteristic irrelevance, and stooped to pat it. A whistle sounded, the Dandie trotted away obediently, and Tally Ho trotted after in hot pursuit. The platform was disgorging a stream of passengers, and Tally Ho, his mind and eye fixed on the dog, passed the ticket collector, unchecked, at the skirt of a stout middle-aged female. ‘Hi,’ said the collector, ‘hi, lydy,--ticket for the youngster, please.’ ‘What youngster?’ said the indignant lady. ‘That there youngster of yourn, in the holland breeks.’ The owner thereof was now well up the staircase, and twinkling over the bridge in pursuit of the Dandie. ‘You impident person!’ said the choleric dame, ‘holland breeks indeed!’ ‘Now then, ma’am, don’t you give me none of your bluff--holland breeks it is, and a smudgy seat at that,--py up please, if you y’nt got no ticket.’ ‘But I tell you I haven’t got any children; I’m a single woman; you must be intoxicated, collector.’ ‘Go it, breeks!’ came a voice from the half-amused and half-impatient crowd. ‘That’ll do, ma’am, that’ll do,’ said the collector, majestically; ‘your name and address, if _you_ please.’