Hands on hips, Frank Pike stood on the platform at London Bridge station and ran an approving eye over his locomotive. He had been a driver for almost two years now but it was the first time he had been put in charge of the Brighton Express, the fast train that took its passengers on a journey of over fifty miles to the increasingly popular town on the south coast. Because it did not stop at any of the intervening stations, it could reach its destination in a mere seventy-five minutes. Pike was determined that it would arrive on time.

A big, sturdy, shambling man in his thirties, he was a dutiful and conscientious employee of the London Brighton and South Coast Railway. His soft West Country burr and gentle manner made him stand out from the other drivers. Pike was a serious man who derived immense satisfaction from his work. Arriving at the shed an hour before the train was due to leave, he had read the notices of speed limits affecting his shift then carefully examined all the working parts of his locomotive, making sure they had been properly lubricated. Everything was in order. Now, minutes before departure, he felt a quiet excitement as he stepped on to the footplate beside his fireman.

'How fast are we going to go, Frank?' asked John Heddle.

'We keep strictly to the recommended speeds,' replied Pike.

'Why not try to break the record?'

'It's not a race, John. Our job is to get the passengers there swiftly and safely. That's what I intend to do.'

'I've always wanted to push an express to the limit.'

'Then you can do so without me,' said Pike, firmly, 'because I'm not taking any chances, especially on my first run. Excessive speeds are irresponsible and dangerous. You should know that.'

'Yes,' agreed Heddle, 'but think of the excitement.'