He felt a miserable sinking of the heart, a weariness as if after great exertion.
An engine came rolling slowly along one of the lines; it stopped just beyond the station, and then backed into a siding.

There followed the thud of carriage against carriage: a train was being made up, he went to watch the operation.

The clang of metal, the hiss of steam, the moving about of men with lanterns held his attention for some time, and so completely that he forgot all else.
Somewhere far away sounded a long-drawn whistle, now faint, now clearer, a modulated wail broken at moments by a tremolo on one high note.

It was like a voice lamenting to the dead of night.

Glazzard could not endure it; he turned back into the station and tramped noisily on the stone platform.
Then the air was disturbed by the dull roar of an approaching train, and presently a long string of loaded waggons passed without pause.