While he was engaged on these reflections, the train drew up at a small station. Opposite the door of Mike’s compartment was standing a boy of about Mike’s size, though evidently some years older. He had a sharp face, with rather a prominent nose; and a pair of pince-nez gave him a supercilious look. He wore a bowler hat, and carried a small portmanteau. He opened the door, and took the seat opposite to Mike, whom he scrutinised for a moment rather after the fashion of a naturalist examining some new and unpleasant variety of beetle. He seemed about to make some remark, but, instead, got up and looked through the open window. “Where’s that porter?” Mike heard him say. The porter came skimming down the platform at that moment. “Porter.” “Sir?” “Are those frightful boxes of mine in all right?” “Yes, sir.” “Because, you know, there’ll be a frightful row if any of them get lost.” “No chance of that, sir.” “Here you are, then.” “Thank you, sir.” The youth drew his head and shoulders in, stared at Mike again, and finally sat down. Mike noticed that he had nothing to read, and wondered if he wanted anything; but he did not feel equal to offering him one of his magazines. He did not like the looks of him particularly. Judging by appearances, he seemed to carry enough side for three. If he wanted a magazine, thought Mike, let him ask for it. The other made no overtures, and at the next stop got out. That explained his magazineless condition. He was only travelling a short way. “Good business,” said Mike to himself. He had all the Englishman’s love of a carriage to himself. The train was just moving out of the station when his eye was suddenly caught by the stranger’s bag, lying snugly in the rack. And here, I regret to say, Mike acted from the best motives, which is always fatal. He realised in an instant what had happened. The fellow had forgotten his bag. Mike had not been greatly fascinated by the stranger’s looks; but, after all, the most supercilious person on earth has a right to his own property. Besides, he might have been quite a nice fellow when you got to know him. Anyhow, the bag had better be returned at once. The train was already moving quite fast, and Mike’s compartment was nearing the end of the platform. He snatched the bag from the rack and hurled it out of the window. (Porter Robinson, who happened to be in the line of fire, escaped with a flesh wound.) Then he sat down again with the inward glow of satisfaction which comes to one when one has risen successfully to a sudden emergency. * * * * * The glow lasted till the next stoppage, which did not occur for a good many miles. Then it ceased abruptly, for the train had scarcely come to a standstill when the opening above the door was darkened by a head and shoulders. The head was surmounted by a bowler, and a pair of pince-nez gleamed from the shadow. “Hullo, I say,” said the stranger. “Have you changed carriages, or what?”