The Necropolis Railway

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With the letters from Rowland Smith in my pocket, I had a lively ride from York to London: just four and a half hours in all. The engine was one of the new Atlantics of Mr Ivatt, and when she came down Stoke Bank I put aside The Railway Magazine I was reading, and leant out the window at the carriage end to experience the amazing velocity.

After Peterborough I took down my box and opened the parcel my dad had packed for me, which turned out to contain three tubs of Melton cream for my boots, and two tins of Nugget's polish, also for my boots. My dad was red-hot for smartness, smart boots especially. There was an alarm clock too – which was the next best thing to Dad coming with me because he'd always woken me up himself at home – and a green Lett's pocket diary, which might seem an out of the way sort of thing to give somebody, November sort of time, but I knew it was the kind of thing Dad would have thought gentlemanly.

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