It didn't seem nearly such a long way going to the station as coming from it, but Boggley on his bicycle was there long before me and my doolie men. We got a train to wherever we were going to about five o'clock. I had some sandwiches with me, and we got tea handed in at a station. It tasted of musty straw, and Boggley said the milk wasn't safe, but the cups made up for everything. Boggley's bore the legend _Forget-me-not_, and mine _A present for a good girl_ in gilt letters. About eight o'clock we came to another station--it is quite impossible to remember their ridiculous names--and got out. It was quite an important station, and the large refreshment-room had a long table set for dinner. Lining the walls of the room were tall glass cases filled with tinned meats, jam, biscuits, and other eatables, for in the Mofussil provisions are bought at the railway stations. After dinner Boggley produced a pencil and sheet of paper. "Now," he said, "we must make a list of provisions wanted." So we sat on the table and laid our heads together. "We'll begin with necessaries," said Boggley "Butter." "Jam," I added, "and cheese." These being put down, we couldn't think of another single thing. "Go on," said Boggley, biting his pencil "That can't be all." "Biscuits," I said with a flash of inspiration, and we chose three boxes of biscuits, and stuck again. When the attendant produced a list of provisions kept, we got on better, and soon had two large wooden boxes packed with things that sounded as if they might taste good. The only thing I do feel we have been extravagant in is mustard--it is an enormous tin, and one doesn't really eat such a vast deal of mustard. The list finished and approved, I asked when our train came in. "About 4.30," said Boggley. This was 9 p.m. "What!" I cried, aghast, "Where are we going to sleep?" Boggley waved his hands comprehensively. "Anywhere," he said; "we'll see what the waiting-room is like." The waiting-room was like nothing I had ever seen before. A large, dirty, barn-like apartment, with some cane seats arranged round the wall, and an attempt at a dressing-table, with a spotty looking-glass on it, in one corner. One small lamp, smelling vilely, served to make darkness visible, and an old hag crouching at the door was the attendant spirit. It doesn't sound cheery, does it? The bearer, Autolycus by name (I call him Autolycus not because he is a knave and witty, but because he is such a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles), made up a bed on one of the cane seats, and there, in that dreary and far from clean apartment, with horrible insects walking up the walls and doubtless carpeting the floor, with no lock on the door and unknown horrors without, I slept dreamlessly. My last waking thought was, "I wish my mother could see me now!"