{"product_id":"2940013691278","title":"Mr Gurney and Mr Slade","description":"James Slade was tired, and legitimately so, for London was sweating\u003cbr\u003ein the embrace of a heat wave, and Mr. Slade had been doing\u003cbr\u003ebusiness with his wholesalers, so, at Fenchurch Street Station he\u003cbr\u003eentered a first-class compartment and, placing his hat in the rack,\u003cbr\u003esnuggled down into a corner seat and waited for some official\u003cbr\u003eperson to arrive, to whom he could tender the additional tribute.\u003cbr\u003eMr. Slade was--for the moment--alone in the carriage, and both\u003cbr\u003ewindows were down, but this London station seemed airless.  Mr.\u003cbr\u003eSlade sat and thought of a chair in the garden, and sea-breezes,\u003cbr\u003eand a glass of Eliza's home-made lemonade.  Moreover, as one of\u003cbr\u003eSouthfleet's most singular and successful citizens, he could claim,\u003cbr\u003eeven with humility, the prestige of first-class travel.  And in\u003cbr\u003eAugust the Southfleet trains became packed like cattle-trucks, with\u003cbr\u003eLondon's East End pouring forth for its yearly sousing in the sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMr. Slade might be feeling the heat and wishing that he could shed\u003cbr\u003ehis coat and sit in his shirt-sleeves, but his interest in humanity\u003cbr\u003ewas unfailing.  He sat and watched the crowd teeming along the\u003cbr\u003eplatform.  Third- and second-classes were filling up, and three\u003cbr\u003epassengers had stepped over Mr. Slade's feet into the compartment.\u003cbr\u003ePerspiring mothers with families to insert fussed up and down.  The\u003cbr\u003ecockney voice was clamant.  Mr. Slade felt like putting his head\u003cbr\u003eout of the window to utter soothing words to these agitated\u003cbr\u003eparents.  \"Keep cool, ladies--It makes me feel hotter--seeing you\u003cbr\u003ein such a state of heat.  The train won't leave without you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe Mr. Slade remembered that summer day, so many years ago, when\u003cbr\u003ehe had travelled to Southfleet with a small and shabby bag and a\u003cbr\u003epast that was equally shabby.  That had been a third-class\u003cbr\u003eoccasion.  Oh, very much so, with poor Clara in charge of the\u003cbr\u003esituation.  What a meek, shabby old sheep she must have thought\u003cbr\u003ehim.  A fourth traveller, moist and stout, in frock-coat and top-\u003cbr\u003ehat, stepped over Mr. Slade's feet, and banged the door with solid\u003cbr\u003efinality.  Let none of the unprivileged attempt to enter here.  The\u003cbr\u003egentleman sat down with an emphatic grunt, removed his hat and\u003cbr\u003emopped his forehead.  Mr. Slade looked at him, and the gentleman\u003cbr\u003elooked back at Mr. Slade.  His glance was a glare.  Even a stare\u003cbr\u003ewas tactless on so sweltering a day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFaces peered in and passed.  A worried guard with flag and whistle\u003cbr\u003ewas fussing up and down, trying to find accommodation for\u003cbr\u003esuperabundant children.  The over-heated gentleman glared at any\u003cbr\u003eface that showed itself.  \"Don't you try to crowd in here!\"\u003cbr\u003eDoubtless his simmering soul had strong views upon the limitation\u003cbr\u003eof proletarian families.  Mr. Slade disliked him, and dislike made\u003cbr\u003ehim feel puckish.  For twopence-halfpenny he would lean out and\u003cbr\u003einvite some bothered mother to enter with her brood.  At a pinch\u003cbr\u003ethe compartment could accommodate three more occupants.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was then that Mr. Slade became interested in a particular and\u003cbr\u003esingular figure.  It was that of a little man with a large head,\u003cbr\u003ethe body of a boy, and frail legs which trotted him up and down\u003cbr\u003ewith a kind of ambling innocence.  The little man was lugging a\u003cbr\u003eshabby black Gladstone bag; it bumped against his legs, and was\u003cbr\u003eobviously too heavy for his strength.  He was dressed in clerical\u003cbr\u003eclothes, and his soft hat had seen much wear.  Three times did the\u003cbr\u003elittle clergyman pass Mr. Slade's window, searching for some\u003cbr\u003ecompartment in which he could take refuge.  He was hot and a little\u003cbr\u003ebothered but he smiled, and to James Slade that smile was singular\u003cbr\u003eand evidential.  So was that battered bag, which looked as though\u003cbr\u003eit had experienced many stresses and struggles.  Mr. Slade was\u003cbr\u003emoved by a memory.  His bag had been like that bag, only smaller.\u003cbr\u003eMr. Slade got up and leaned out of the window.  The guard had his\u003cbr\u003ewhistle in his mouth, and the last doors were closing.  The little\u003cbr\u003eman was drifting down again towards Mr. Slade, smiling in a\u003cbr\u003ewhimsical sort of way at the packed compartments, and Mr. Slade\u003cbr\u003ewaved to him.","brand":"WDS Publishing","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47083152769264,"sku":"2940013691278","price":0.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940013691278_p0.jpg?v=1763584597","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940013691278","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}