"Hang on to this bag, then. There are three boxes in the van. You'll need a barrow--they're heavy!" By this time, the man who knew so little of important Nuttonby--which held 3,005 inhabitants in the 1911 census, having increased by two since 1901--had risen, and was collecting a fisherman's outfit, and some odds and ends of personal belongings. He followed the porter, who, on eyeing the rods and pannier, and with some knowledge of "county" manners, had accepted the stranger as entitled to hold a first-class ticket. Sure enough, the boxes were heavy. The guard had to assist in handling them. "By gum!" said the porter, when he tried to lift the first on to a trolley. "Books," explained the traveler. "I thought mebbe they wuz lead," said the porter. "Some books have that quality," said the other. The guard, a reader in his spare time, smiled. The owner of so much solid literature seized a stout leather handle. "I'll give you a hand," he said, and the porter soon added to his slight store of facts concerning the newcomer. This tall, sparsely-built man in tweeds and a deer-stalker cap was no weakling. The platform was nearly empty when the porter began to trundle the loaded trolley along its length. A pert youth appeared from nowhere, and cried "Ticket!" firmly, almost threateningly. He was given a first-class ticket from York, and a receipt for excess luggage. The bit of white paste-board startled him. "Thank you, sir," he said. First-class passengers were rare birds at Nuttonby; too late, he knew he ought to have said "Ticket, please!" The same pert youth, appearing again from nowhere, officiated in the parcels office. He noticed that none of the articles bore a name or initials; they were brand-new; their only railway labels were "York, from King's Cross," and "Nuttonby, from York." "Book the bag and these small articles separately," he was instructed. "I may want them soon. The boxes may be sent for this afternoon; I don't know yet." He turned to the porter: "Is there a house agent in the town?" "Yes, sir--two." "Which is the better--the man with the larger _clientele_--sorry, I mean with the greater number of houses on his books?" "Well, sir, Walker an' Son have bin in business here fifty year an' more." "I'll try Walker. Where's his place?" "Next door the 'Red Lion,' sir." Then the youth, anxious to atone, and rather quicker-witted than the brown-hued one, got in a word. "The 'Red Lion' is halfway up the main street, sir. Turn to your right when you leave here, an' you're there in two minutes." "I'll show the gentleman," said the porter, who had decided a month ago that this blooming kid was putting on airs. He was as good as his word--or nearly so. A tip of half a crown was stupefying, but he gathered his wits in time to say brokenly at the exit: "Wu-Wu-Walker's is straight up, sir."