Mr Gurney and Mr Slade

James Slade was tired, and legitimately so, for London was sweating
in the embrace of a heat wave, and Mr. Slade had been doing
business with his wholesalers, so, at Fenchurch Street Station he
entered a first-class compartment and, placing his hat in the rack,
snuggled down into a corner seat and waited for some official
person to arrive, to whom he could tender the additional tribute.
Mr. Slade was--for the moment--alone in the carriage, and both
windows were down, but this London station seemed airless. Mr.
Slade sat and thought of a chair in the garden, and sea-breezes,
and a glass of Eliza's home-made lemonade. Moreover, as one of
Southfleet's most singular and successful citizens, he could claim,
even with humility, the prestige of first-class travel. And in
August the Southfleet trains became packed like cattle-trucks, with
London's East End pouring forth for its yearly sousing in the sea.

Mr. Slade might be feeling the heat and wishing that he could shed
his coat and sit in his shirt-sleeves, but his interest in humanity
was unfailing. He sat and watched the crowd teeming along the
platform. Third- and second-classes were filling up, and three
passengers had stepped over Mr. Slade's feet into the compartment.
Perspiring mothers with families to insert fussed up and down. The
cockney voice was clamant. Mr. Slade felt like putting his head
out of the window to utter soothing words to these agitated
parents. "Keep cool, ladies--It makes me feel hotter--seeing you
in such a state of heat. The train won't leave without you."

Maybe Mr. Slade remembered that summer day, so many years ago, when
he had travelled to Southfleet with a small and shabby bag and a
past that was equally shabby. That had been a third-class
occasion. Oh, very much so, with poor Clara in charge of the
situation. What a meek, shabby old sheep she must have thought
him. A fourth traveller, moist and stout, in frock-coat and top-
hat, stepped over Mr. Slade's feet, and banged the door with solid
finality. Let none of the unprivileged attempt to enter here. The
gentleman sat down with an emphatic grunt, removed his hat and
mopped his forehead. Mr. Slade looked at him, and the gentleman
looked back at Mr. Slade. His glance was a glare. Even a stare
was tactless on so sweltering a day.

Faces peered in and passed. A worried guard with flag and whistle
was fussing up and down, trying to find accommodation for
superabundant children. The over-heated gentleman glared at any
face that showed itself. "Don't you try to crowd in here!"
Doubtless his simmering soul had strong views upon the limitation
of proletarian families. Mr. Slade disliked him, and dislike made
him feel puckish. For twopence-halfpenny he would lean out and
invite some bothered mother to enter with her brood. At a pinch
the compartment could accommodate three more occupants.

It was then that Mr. Slade became interested in a particular and
singular figure. It was that of a little man with a large head,
the body of a boy, and frail legs which trotted him up and down
with a kind of ambling innocence. The little man was lugging a
shabby black Gladstone bag; it bumped against his legs, and was
obviously too heavy for his strength. He was dressed in clerical
clothes, and his soft hat had seen much wear. Three times did the
little clergyman pass Mr. Slade's window, searching for some
compartment in which he could take refuge. He was hot and a little
bothered but he smiled, and to James Slade that smile was singular
and evidential. So was that battered bag, which looked as though
it had experienced many stresses and struggles. Mr. Slade was
moved by a memory. His bag had been like that bag, only smaller.
Mr. Slade got up and leaned out of the window. The guard had his
whistle in his mouth, and the last doors were closing. The little
man was drifting down again towards Mr. Slade, smiling in a
whimsical sort of way at the packed compartments, and Mr. Slade
waved to him.