Sleepy children stared with wondering eyes at pictorial efforts to beguile the tedium of waiting for trains.

There were geographical posters comparing Cornwall favourably to Italy; posters of girls in bathing costume beckoning to "the Cornish Riviera;" posters of frolicsome puppies in baskets ticketed "Lucky Dogs, They're Off to Penzance." The passengers waiting for the midnight train to that resort did not do equal justice to this flattering assumption of its delights.

They seemed, on the whole, rather to regard themselves as unlucky dogs (if the term could be applied to parties of women), and were huddled together on the station seats in attitudes suggestive of despair.

Men flirting with barmaids in the bars may have considered themselves lucky dogs, but whisky played an important part in their exhilaration.
The belated train came rushing in with an effusion of steam, like a late arrival puffing out apologies, bringing a large number of passengers back to London from Penzance.

They scrambled on to the platform with the dishevelled appearance of people who had been cooped up for hours.
First-class passengers eased their pent-up energy by shouting for luggage porters and bundling their women into taxicabs.