Of course, he had to crack on while the train was at a stand, for the rattlers had no corridors. We were to go to Blackpool express – without a booked stop, that is – but Lowther would be up and down whenever the signals checked us, clambering into compartments and asking for the tickets with his Scotland Yard air and a face like yesterday.

It was unusual to have an inspector on an excursion train, I thought, taking another look at the fire. An excursion was meant to be fun.

It was now eight-fourteen.

Clive climbed up next to me, and began looking in the soft leather book in which he would copy from the working timetable the details of any turn. It was all part of his exquisite ways, like not being able to stand coal dust on the footplate. Down along the platform Reuben Booth was untangling the green flag from the shoulder strap of his satchel, and trying not to bring his hat off while he was about it. Superannuation seemed to have passed Reuben by. He was very old, and very slow, which a fellow was allowed to be if he'd had a hand in the building of the viaducts from Settle to Carlisle, where as many men had died as in a medium-sized empire war.

Steam pressure was climbing, and number 1418 was near blowing off, ardent to be away. Little ghosts of steam flew fast towards Reuben.

The starter signal came off with the bang, but just as Clive reached with his gloved hand for the shining regulator, there came a noise from the platform. Chucking down my shovel, I looked out. Two of the excursionists – two blokes – had run across to the machine that gave cream biscuits.