At six twenty-one they were having breakfast in the little dining-room, by the heat of another gas-stove. And Arthur felt that all was well, and that in postponing their departure till that morning in order not to upset the immemorial Christmas dinner of their Aunt Sarah, they had done rightly. At half-past six they had, between them, drunk five cups of tea and eaten four eggs, four slices of bacon, and about a pound and a half of bread. Simeon, with what was surely an exaggeration of imperturbability, charged his pipe, and began to smoke. They had forty minutes in which to catch the Loop-Line train, even if it was prompt. There would then be forty minutes to wait at Knype for the London express, which arrived at Euston considerably before noon. After which there would be a clear ninety minutes before the business itself--and less than a quarter of a mile to walk! Yes, there was a rich and generous margin for all conceivable delays and accidents. "The porter ought to be coming," said Simeon. It was twenty minutes to seven, and he was brushing his hat. Now such a remark from that personification of calm, that living denial of worry, Simeon, was decidedly unsettling to Arthur. By chance, Mrs Hopkins came into the room just then to assure herself that the young men whose house she kept desired nothing. "Mrs Hopkins," Simeon asked, "you didn't forget to call at the station last night?" "Oh no, Mr Simeon," said she; "I saw the second porter, Merrith. He knows me. At least, I know his mother--known her forty year--and he promised me he wouldn't forget. Besides, he never has forgot, has he? I told him particular to bring his barrow." It was true the porter never had forgotten! And many times had he transported Simeon's luggage to Bleakridge Station. Simeon did a good deal of commercial travelling for the firm of A. & S. Cotterill, teapot makers, Bursley. In many commercial hotels he was familiarly known as Teapot Cotterill. The brothers were reassured by Mrs Hopkins. There was half an hour to the time of the train--and the station only ten minutes off. Then the chiming clock in the hall struck the third quarter. "That clock right?" Arthur nervously inquired, assuming his overcoat. "It's a minute late," said Simeon, assuming _his_ overcoat. And at that word "late," the pincers and the anvil revisited Arthur. Even the confidence of Mrs Hopkins in the porter was shaken. Arthur looked at Simeon, depending on him. It was imperative that they should catch the train, and it was imperative that the trunk should catch the train. Everything depended on a porter. Arthur felt that all his future career, his happiness, his honour, his life depended on a porter. And, after all, even porters at a pound a week are human. Therefore, Arthur looked at Simeon. Simeon walked through the kitchen into the backyard. In a shed there an old barrow was lying. He drew out the barrow, and ticklishly wheeled it into the house, as far as the foot of the stairs.