Woking Road Station was a very different place from what it is now, and of much less importance. Where a busy town stands now, created by the railway, and mainly peopled by it, there were in those days but a few sad cottages in an expanse of dark furze and lonely commons. Very poor sandy land, and black patches where the gorse had been fired, and one public-house, called of course the _Railway Hotel_, and large sweeps of young fir-plantations were its chief features then, and the shabby station looked like a trunk pitched from the line. There were two dirty flies, like watchmen’s boxes, one with the shafts turned up, and the other peopled by a horse, who had been down upon his knees, and was licking the flies off at his leisure. The driver was sitting on a log in the distance, cutting bread and cheese, and sipping something from a tin which appeared to have submitted to the black embrace of bonfires. Perceiving that this was a crusty old fellow, of true British fibre, and paid by the day, which relieved him from restless anxiety for work, I approached him as nearly as I could in his own vein. “They don’t seem to be very busy here just now. But I suppose your old nag can go along when he likes. How much do you charge to Shepperton?” “Shepp’ton, Shepp’ton? Never heard of no such place. Which way do it lie, governor? “Well, you had better ask,” I said very craftily as I fancied; “some of your mates will be sure to know. Some of them must have been there before now. They can tell you how far it is.” “None of them at home this afternoon,” the lazy rogue answered, as he took another mouthful; “better ask station-master. Like enough, he knows.” “He has nothing to do with you. And I want to know what the fare is. Look here, I’ll stand you a pint at the bar, if you will just come up, and find out what it is. Some of your mates must have been as far as that, to take people for the pike-fishing. Shepperton is a great place for that.” “Very well, come along. But what do you want a cab for, when you’ve got your own horse, and a good ’un too?” “Stick to your own business,” I answered gruffly; and that tone seemed to have more charm for him, as happens very often with ill-conditioned men; “you are on your legs now, try to keep them moving.” “Gent wants to know fare to Shepperton;” he shouted through the precincts of the bar into the stable-yard. “Any of you chaps been there lately? Governor gone up to have a snooze.” He illustrated that point with a genial wink. “Why, Tom been there, not so very long agone,” said a little old man who was washing a double curb under the pump, and twisting out the grime with his thumbnails; “or if it wasn’t Tom, it was Joe—Joe Clipson, so it was. And a long job it were. I had to stop up for him. Thought something must have happened—he were gone such a time.”