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The Magistrate in the Luggage Van.
The city of Winchester is famed for a cathedral, a bishop--but he was unfortunately killed some years ago while riding--a public school, a considerable assortment of the military, and the deliberate passage of the trains of the London and South-Western line.

These and many similar associations would have doubtless crowded on the mind of Joseph Finsbury; but his spirit had at that time flitted from the railway compartment to a heaven of populous lecture-halls and endless oratory.
His body, in the meanwhile, lay doubled on the cushions, the forage-cap rakishly tilted back after the fashion of those that lie in wait for nursery-maids, the poor old face quiescent, one arm clutching to his heart Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper.
To him, thus unconscious, enter and exeunt again a pair of voyagers.
These two had saved the train and no more.

A tandem urged to its last speed, an act of something closely bordering on brigandage at the ticket office, and a spasm of running, had brought them on the platform just as the engine uttered its departing snort.

There was but one carriage easily within their reach; and they had sprung into it, and the leader and elder already had his feet upon the floor, when he observed Mr Finsbury.
'Good God!' he cried.