“No,” said Mike. “Then, dash it, where’s my frightful bag?” Life teems with embarrassing situations. This was one of them. “The fact is,” said Mike, “I chucked it out.” “Chucked it out! what do you mean? When?” “At the last station.” The guard blew his whistle, and the other jumped into the carriage. “I thought you’d got out there for good,” explained Mike. “I’m awfully sorry.” “Where _is_ the bag?” “On the platform at the last station. It hit a porter.” Against his will, for he wished to treat the matter with fitting solemnity, Mike grinned at the recollection. The look on Porter Robinson’s face as the bag took him in the small of the back had been funny, though not intentionally so. The bereaved owner disapproved of this levity; and said as much. “Don’t _grin_, you little beast,” he shouted. “There’s nothing to laugh at. You go chucking bags that don’t belong to you out of the window, and then you have the frightful cheek to grin about it.” “It wasn’t that,” said Mike hurriedly. “Only the porter looked awfully funny when it hit him.” “Dash the porter! What’s going to happen about my bag? I can’t get out for half a second to buy a magazine without your flinging my things about the platform. What you want is a frightful kicking.” The situation was becoming difficult. But fortunately at this moment the train stopped once again; and, looking out of the window, Mike saw a board with East Wobsley upon it in large letters. A moment later Bob’s head appeared in the doorway. “Hullo, there you are,” said Bob. His eye fell upon Mike’s companion. “Hullo, Gazeka!” he exclaimed. “Where did you spring from? Do you know my brother? He’s coming to Wrykyn this term. By the way, rather lucky you’ve met. He’s in your house. Firby-Smith’s head of Wain’s, Mike.” Mike gathered that Gazeka and Firby-Smith were one and the same person. He grinned again. Firby-Smith continued to look ruffled, though not aggressive. “Oh, are you in Wain’s?” he said. “I say, Bob,” said Mike, “I’ve made rather an ass of myself.” “Naturally.” “I mean, what happened was this. I chucked Firby-Smith’s portmanteau out of the window, thinking he’d got out, only he hadn’t really, and it’s at a station miles back.” “You’re a bit of a rotter, aren’t you? Had it got your name and address on it, Gazeka?” “Yes.” “Oh, then it’s certain to be all right. It’s bound to turn up some time. They’ll send it on by the next train, and you’ll get it either to-night or to-morrow.” “Frightful nuisance, all the same. Lots of things in it I wanted.” “Oh, never mind, it’s all right. I say, what have you been doing in the holidays? I didn’t know you lived on this line at all.”