Many stout City gentlemen lived at Ealing in those days--I believe some live there still--and caught early trains to Town.

They all started late; they all carried a black bag and a newspaper in one hand, and an umbrella in the other; and for the last quarter of a mile to the station, wet or fine, they all ran.
Folks with nothing else to do, nursemaids chiefly and errand boys, with now and then a perambulating costermonger added, would gather on the common of a fine morning to watch them pass, and cheer the most deserving.

It was not a showy spectacle.

They did not run well, they did not even run fast; but they were earnest, and they did their best.
The exhibition appealed less to one's sense of art than to one's natural admiration for conscientious effort.
Occasionally a little harmless betting would take place among the crowd.
"Two to one agin the old gent in the white weskit!" "Ten to one on old Blowpipes, bar he don't roll over hisself 'fore 'e gets there!" "Heven money on the Purple Hemperor!"-- a nickname bestowed by a youth of entomological tastes upon a certain retired military neighbour of my uncle's,--a gentleman of imposing appearance when stationary, but apt to colour highly under exercise.
My uncle and the others would write to the _Ealing Press_ complaining bitterly concerning the supineness of the local police; and the editor would add spirited leaders upon the Decay of Courtesy among the Lower Orders, especially throughout the Western Suburbs.

But no good ever resulted.
It was not that my uncle did not rise early enough; it was that troubles came to him at the last moment.