"Stop! I want a word wi' ye." Dickson plunged at a third-class carriage, for he saw faces behind the misty panes, and above all things then he feared an empty compartment.

He clambered on to the step, but the handle would not turn, and with a sharp pang of fear he felt the innkeeper's grip on his arm.

Then some Samaritan from within let down the window, opened the door, and pulled him up.

He fell on a seat, and a second later Dobson staggered in beside him.
Thank Heaven, the dirty little carriage was nearly full.

There were two herds, each with a dog and a long hazel crook, and an elderly woman who looked like a ploughman's wife out for a day's marketing.