But if “red upon green” be not the order, steam is gradually shut off before the third signal is passed, the breaks are applied gradually and steadily, the train comes to walking pace, and, as the engine glides into the station, the driver looks at his watch, and sees by it that it is exactly two hours, less one minute, since he quitted London. He is correct to time to the moment; but if he were not so, he would, even if he were blameless, hear of it from two sources certainly—his own foreman and the railway guard; and if it were a postal train, through the inspector of that department. To the first-named official, at all events, he would have to give ample explanations. At Rugby, driver and fireman are allowed four minutes to “water the engine,” which means, giving her a fresh supply of that most precious aliment, going carefully round and _under_ her to see and to feel that no part is unusually heated, and to supply with oil, from cans with the stork-like necks we see in the hands of all drivers and firemen, those parts of the engine and machinery which cannot be supplied during transit. In the course of these four minutes, if the train carry the mails, a postal operation is manifested which suddenly converts the platform, previously comparatively tranquil, into a scene of intense animation. Piles of mail-bags are hurled out from the vans and travelling post offices with indescribable celerity. The guards and porters of the department perform this part of the business, but from the moment the bags are on the platform post office drudgery in respect of them ceases, and it then becomes the duty of the railway porters to attend to their further manipulation. This duty, however, is deferred until the bags awaiting on the platform the arrival of the train are lodged, by post office mandate, in van or sorting office; a sharp “All right” is heard to issue from the inside of the latter, the railway passengers who have left their carriages have returned to them, the porters have ceased crying, “Take your seats for north,” and have replaced it by, “Any more passengers for the Scotch express?” all doors are closed—banged,—“Are you all right behind?” The wave of a white flag by day, a white lamp by night, is railway language for “Yes,”—a sharp decisive whistle from the foremost guard,—whether the sound be heard above the hissing of the escaping steam or the motion only be perceived it matters not, the engine driver understands it,—up goes his regulator, on goes his steam, the fireman (who has freed his break as soon as the engine is ready for starting) looks to the rear of the train as it begins to move from the station. If the engine don’t “slip,” the regulator, further raised, admits more steam to the cylinder; should it slip, steam is altogether shut off for a moment, and then let on again. The engine has got over the slippery point on the rails,—slippery either from the ordinary foulness of the