And he said: “Can't I take Hamlet with me?” And the voice answered: “Hamlet is with you already,” and there, behold, was Hamlet sitting on the pink cloud with a stiff gold collar round his neck, wagging his tail. And then the voice shouted so loudly that Jeremy jumped off the pink cloud in his astonishment: “Liskane! Liskane! Liskane!” and Jeremy jumped and fell and fell--right into his father's lap, with someone crying in his ear: “Wake up, Jeremy! We're there! We're there!” His first thought was for his green box, which was, he found, safely and securely in his hand. Then for Hamlet, who was, he saw with horror, already upon the platform, the lead trailing behind him like a neglected conscience, his burning eyes piercing his hair in search of another dog, whom he smelt but could not see. Jeremy, rushing out of the train, seized the lead, scolded his recovered property, who wore an expression of injured and abandoned innocence, and looked about him. Yes, this was Liskane--wonderful, marvellous, magical Liskane! To the bored and cynical adult Liskane may easily appear to be one of the ugliest, most deserted stations in the whole of Europe, having nothing on either side of it save barren grey fields that never grow grass but only stones and bottles, with its single decoration--a heavy iron bridge that crosses the rails and leads up to the higher road and the town of Liskane. Ugly enough, but to Jeremy, on this summer afternoon, the gate to a sure and certain Paradise. Although his family were fussing around him, Barbara crying, Mr. Cole saying: “Four, Five, Six... But where's the black box? Your black box, Amy... Six, Seven... But there should be Eight... Seven...” and Mrs. Cole saying: “And there's my brown bag. The little one with the black handle,” and Helen saying. “OO, was it adidums, then Nandy-Pandy, Nandy-Pandy...” and Miss Jones: “Now, Mary! Now, Jeremy! Now, Helen!”; although this was going on just as it always had gone on, his eyes were searching for the wagonette. Ah, there it was! He could just see the top of it beyond the iron bridge, and Jim, the man from the Farm, would be coming down to help with the boxes; yes, there he was crossing the bridge now, with his red face and broad shoulders, and the cap on the side of his head, just as he always wore it. Jeremy recognised him with a strange, little choking sensation. It was “coming home” to him, all this was--the great event of his life, and as he looked at the others he realised, young as he was, that none of them felt it as he did, and the realisation gave him a strange feeling, half of gratification, half of loneliness. He stood there, a little apart from the rest of them, clutching his box, and holding on to Hamlet's lead, feeling so deeply excited that his heart was like a hard, cold stone jumping up and down, bump, bump, behind his waistcoat. “That's Jim! That's Jim!” he whispered in a hoarse gasp to Miss Jones.