A railway man looked in.

The collector's dim office became awake with jokes and laughter.
"Going up today ?" he asked.

"I'll see you get berths on the train." We little realized at the moment the extent of that consideration; but understanding dawned fifteen minutes before high noon when we strolled to the station behind a string of porters carrying our luggage.
Courtney was there to see us off, and he looked worried.
"I'm wondering whether you'll ever get your luggage through," he said with a sort of feminine solicitude.

It was strange to hear the hero of one's school-days, mighty hunter and fearless leader of forlorn campaigns, actually troubled about whether we could catch our train.
But so the man was, gentle always and considerate of everybody but himself.
There was law in this new land, at all events along the railway line.
Not even handbags or rifles could pass by the barrier until weighed and paid for.

Crammed in the vestibule in front of us were fifty people fretfully marshalling in line their strings of porters lest any later comer get by ahead of them; foremost, with his breast against the ticket window, was Georges Coutlass.