They reach the platform somehow; they stand wedged amid a throng which roars persistently as a substitute for the activity of limb Row become impossible.

A train is drawing up slowly; the danger is lest people in the front row should be pushed over the edge of the platform, but porters exert themselves with success.

A rush, a tumble, curses, blows, laughter, screams of pain--and we are in a carriage.

Pennyloaf has to be dragged up from under the seat, and all her indignation cannot free her from the jovial embrace of a man who insists that there is plenty of room on his knee.

Off we go! It is a long third-class coach, and already five or six musical instruments have struck up.