Bobbie had never been anywhere near the top of her French class, but she must have learned something without knowing it, for now, looking at those wild, hunted eyes, she actually remembered and, what is more, spoke, some French words.

She said:-- "Vous attendre.

Ma mere parlez Francais.

Nous--what's the French for 'being kind' ?" Nobody knew.
"Bong is 'good,'" said Phyllis.
"Nous etre bong pour vous." I do not know whether the man understood her words, but he understood the touch of the hand she thrust into his, and the kindness of the other hand that stroked his shabby sleeve.
She pulled him gently towards the inmost sanctuary of the Station Master.

The other children followed, and the Station Master shut the door in the face of the crowd, which stood a little while in the booking office talking and looking at the fast closed yellow door, and then by ones and twos went its way, grumbling.
Inside the Station Master's room Bobbie still held the stranger's hand and stroked his sleeve.
"Here's a go," said the Station Master; "no ticket--doesn't even know where he wants to go.