ery side with questions they cannot answer,
rushes are made on any empty carriages within reach, a child is knocked
down and cries.

Over all this excitement and confusion one man is presiding, untiring,
forceful, ubiquitous--a sturdy man, somewhere about five feet ten,
whose lungs are brass and nerves fine steel wire. He is dressed, as to
his body, in brown corduroy trousers, a blue jacket and waistcoat with
shining brass buttons, a grey flannel shirt, and a silver-braided cap,
which, as time passes, he thrusts further back on his head till its
peak stands at last almost erect, a crest seen high above the conflict.
As to the soul of him, this man is clothed with resolution, courage,
authority, and an infectious enthusiasm. He is the brain and will of
the whole organism, its driving power. Drivers lean out of their
engines, one hand on the steam throttle, their eyes fixed on this man;
if he waves his hands, trains move; if he holds them up, trains halt.
Strings of carriages out in the open are carrying out his plans, and
the porters toil like maniacs to meet his commands. Piles of luggage
disappear as he directs the attack, and his scouts capture isolated
boxes hidden among the people. Every horse box has a place in his
memory, and he has calculated how many carriages would clear the north
traffic; he carries the destination of families in his head, and has
made arrangements for their comfort. "Soon ready now, sir," as he
passed swiftly down to receive the last southerner, "and a second
compartment reserved for you," till people watched for him, and the
sound of his voice, "forrit wi' the Hielant luggage," inspired
bewildered tourists with confidence, and became an argument for
Providence. There is a general movement towards the northern end of
the station; five barrows, whose luggage swings dangerously and has to
be held on, pass in procession; dogs are collected and trailed along in
bundles; families pick up their bags and press after their luggage,
cheered to recognise a familiar piece peeping out from strange goods; a
bell is rung with insistence. The Aberdeen express leaves--its
passengers regarding the platform with pity--and the guard of the last
van slamming his door in triumph. The great man concentrates his force
with a wave of his hand for the _tour de force_ of the year, the
despatch of the Hielant train.

The southern end of the platform is now deserted--the London express
departed half an hour a