As the old gentleman sat waiting the moment of departure, he was the witness of an incident strangely connected with the fortunes of his house.  A packing-case of cyclopean bulk was borne along the platform by some dozen of tottering porters, and ultimately, to the delight of a considerable crowd, hoisted on board the van.  It is often the cheering task of the historian to direct attention to the designs and (if it may be reverently said) the artifices of Providence.  In the luggage van, as Joseph was borne out of the station of Southampton East upon his way to London, the egg of his romance lay (so to speak) unhatched.  The huge packing-case was directed to lie at Waterloo till called for, and addressed to one ‘William Dent Pitman’; and the very next article, a goodly barrel jammed into the corner of the van, bore the superscription, ’M.  Finsbury, 16 John Street, Bloomsbury.  Carriage paid.’

In this juxtaposition, the train of powder was prepared; and there was now wanting only an idle hand to fire it off.

CHAPTER IV.  The Magistrate in the Luggage Van

The city of Winchester is famed for a cathedral, a bishop—­but he was unfortunately killed some years ago while riding—­a public school, a considerable assortment of the military, and the deliberate passage of the trains of the London and South-Western line.  These and many similar associations would have doubtless crowded on the mind of Joseph Finsbury; but his spirit had at that time flitted from the railway compartment to a heaven of populous lecture-halls and endless oratory.  His body, in the meanwhile, lay doubled on the cushions, the forage-cap rakishly tilted back after the fashion of those that lie in wait for nursery-maids, the poor old face quiescent, one arm clutching to his heart Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper.

To him, thus unconscious, enter and exeunt again a pair of voyagers.  These two had saved the train and no more.  A tandem urged to its last speed, an act of something closely bordering on brigandage at the ticket office, and a spasm of running, had brought them on the platform just as the engine uttered its departing snort.  There was but one carriage easily within their reach; and they had sprung into it, and the leader and elder already had his feet upon the floor, when he observed Mr Finsbury.

‘Good God!’ he cried.  ‘Uncle Joseph!  This’ll never do.’

And he backed out, almost upsetting his companion, and once more closed the door upon the sleeping patriarch.

The next moment the pair had jumped into the baggage van.

‘What’s the row about your Uncle Joseph?’ enquired the younger traveller, mopping his brow.  ‘Does he object to smoking?’

‘I don’t know that there’s anything the row with him,’ returned the other.  ’He’s by no means the first comer, my Uncle Joseph, I can tell you!  Very respectable old gentleman; interested in leather; been to Asia Minor; no family, no assets—­and a tongue, my dear Wickham, sharper than a serpent’s tooth.’