I got to Paddington Station and took the first train to Cherton. Cherton is not far from a great centre, and, as a rule, you have to change trains and get into a "local" before you can arrive at the little old-world place. I travelled third, of course, and had quite an interesting journey. My compartment was full and I enjoyed looking at my companions. They were the sort of people who do travel third--I mean they were the sort of people who have a right to travel third. A great many ladies now go third-class when they ought to go second or first, but these people had a right to their third-class compartment, and thoroughly they seemed to enjoy themselves. They brought parcels innumerable; some of them brought birds in cages. There was a small, sharp-looking boy who had a pet weasel in his pocket. The weasel thrust out his head now and then and looked at us with his cunning bright eyes, and then darted back once more into his place of shelter. The boy looked intensely happy with his weasel; in fact, the creature seemed to comprise all his world. I managed to enter into conversation with the boy, and he told me that he was going to Cherton to be apprenticed to an old uncle of his; he was to learn the boot and shoe business and was to make a good thing of it, so that he might be rich enough to help his father and mother by and by. He had nice, honest, brown eyes, and when I asked him his name he said that he was called Jack Martin, but that most of his friends called him Jack Tar. They all thought he would fail--all except Sam--but Sam prognosticated his success. I asked the boy who "Sam" was, and he answered in his simple, direct way: "Why, he's my best pal, lydy." I liked the little fellow when he answered in that fashion, and told him in a low voice that I was also going to Cherton, that I had spent many years in that little, out-of-the-world village, and that I was going to seek my aunt. He was much interested, and we became so chummy that he offered me the loan of "Frisky," as he called the weasel, for a short time, if I'd be very kind to it. I thanked him much for the honour he meant to confer on me, but explained that I was not in the habit of carrying weasels about with me, and perhaps would not understand "Frisky's" manners. "He's a rare 'un for giving you a nip," said the boy in reply, "but Lor' bless yer, that don't matter. There's nothing wicious about he." The other people in the carriage were also interested in the boy, and even more so in "Frisky," who by and by extended his peregrinations from one person to another, nibbling up a few crumbs of cake, and putting away with disdain morsels of orange peel, and altogether behaving like a well-behaved weasel of independent mind. The boy said he hoped "Frisky" would be allowed to sleep in his bed at his uncle's place, and the women sympathised, the men also expressing their hearty wishes on the subject.