The clang of metal, the
hiss of steam, the moving about of men with lanterns held his
attention for some time, and so completely that he forgot all else.
Somewhere far away sounded a long-drawn whistle, now faint, now
clearer, a modulated wail broken at moments by a tremolo on one high
note. It was like a voice lamenting to the dead of night. Glazzard
could not endure it; he turned back into the station and tramped
noisily on the stone platform.
Then the air was disturbed by the dull roar of an approaching train,
and presently a long string of loaded waggons passed without pause.
The engine-fire glowed upon heavy puffs of smoke, making them a rich
crimson. A freight of iron bars clanged and clashed intolerably.
When remoteness at length stilled them, there rose again the long
wailing whistle; it was answered by another like it from still
greater distance.
Glazzard could stand and walk no longer. He threw himself on a seat,
crossed his arms, and remained motionless until the ringing of a
bell and a sudden turning on of lights warned him that his train
drew near.
On the way to Polterham he dozed, and only a fortunate awaking at
the last moment saved him from passing his station. It was now close
upon two o'clock, and he had a two-mile walk to Highmead. His
brother believed that he was spending the evening with an
acquaintance in a neighbouring town; he had said he should probably
be very late, and a side door was to be left unbarred that he might
admit himself with a latch-key.
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