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 ago with thirteen passengers, very crestfallen and envious--and across the open centre porters hustle barrows at headlong speed, with neglected pieces of luggage.