was fully justified; his skill brought the company, if not to absolute
prosperity, at least to a dividend-paying condition, and laid the
foundation of the position that company now occupies.

His reputation as a man of figures stood as I have just said very high,
but, whilst I was at Derby, and before he moved to the Great Eastern, he
was prominent also as the happy possessor of the best coloured meerschaum
pipes in the county, and this, in those days, was no small distinction.
But a man does not achieve greatness by his own unaided efforts. Others,
his subordinates, help him to climb the ladder. It was so with Mr.
Swarbrick. There was a tall policeman in the service of the company, the
possessor of a fine figure, and a splendid long sandy-coloured beard. His
primary duty was to air himself at the front entrance of the station
arrayed in a fine uniform and tall silk hat, and this duty he
conscientiously performed. Secondarily, his occupation was to start the
colouring of new meerschaums for Mr. Swarbrick. Non-meerschaum smokers
may not know what a delicate task this is, but once well begun the rest
is comparatively easy. The tall policeman was an artist at the work; but
it nearly brought him to a tragic end, as I will relate.

Outside Derby station was a ticket platform at which all incoming trains
stopped for the collection of tickets. This platform was on a bridge
that crossed the river. One Saturday night our fine policeman was airing
himself on this platform, colouring a handsome new meerschaum for Mr.
Swarbrick. It was a windy night and a sudden gust blew his tall hat into
the river, and after it unfortunately dropped the meerschaum. Hat and
pipe both! Without a moment's hesitation in plunged the policeman to the
rescue; but the river was deep and he an indifferent swimmer. The night
was dark and he was not brought to land till life had nearly left him. He
recovered, but lost his sight and became blind for the rest of his life.
Mr. Swarbrick provided for him, I believe, by setting him up in a small
public house, where, I am told, despite his loss of sight, he ended his
days not unhappily.

In 1867, compared with 1851, the Midland had made giant strides. It
worked a thousand miles of railway against five hundred; its capital had
doubled and reached thirty-two millions, about one-fourth of what it is
to-day; its revenue had risen from about a million to over a million and
a half; and the dividend wa