Gethryn strolled to the gate, where the station-master’s son stood at the receipt of custom to collect the tickets. His uncle was to arrive by this train, and if he did so arrive, must of necessity pass this way before leaving the platform. The train panted in, pulled up, whistled, and puffed out again, leaving three people behind it. One of these was a woman of sixty (approximately), the second a small girl of ten, the third a young gentleman in a top hat and Etons, who carried a bag, and looked as if he had seen the hollowness of things, for his face wore a bored, supercilious look. His uncle had evidently not arrived, unless he had come disguised as an old woman, an act of which Gethryn refused to believe him capable.
He enquired as to the next train that was expected to arrive from London. The station-master’s son was not sure, but would ask the porter, whose name it appeared was Johnny. Johnny gave the correct answer without an effort. ’Seven-thirty it was, sir, except on Saturdays, when it was eight o’clock.’
‘Thanks,’ said the Bishop. ’Dash the man, he might at least have wired.’
He registered a silent wish concerning the uncle who had brought him a long three miles out of his way with nothing to show at the end of it, and was just turning to leave the station, when the top-hatted small boy, who had been hovering round the group during the conversation, addressed winged words to him. These were the winged words—
‘I say, are you looking for somebody?’ The Bishop stared at him as a naturalist stares at a novel species of insect.
'Yes,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Is your name Gethryn?’
This affair, thought the Bishop, was beginning to assume an uncanny aspect.
‘How the dickens did you know that?’ he said.
’Oh, then you are Gethryn? That’s all right. I was told you were going to be here to meet this train. Glad to make your acquaintance. My name’s Farnie. I’m your uncle, you know.’
‘My what?’ gurgled the Bishop.
‘Your uncle. U-n, un; c-l-e—kul. Uncle. Fact, I assure you.'
