“We’ve got him here in custody, sir,” said Bushers, touching his hat.  It had become known from the guard that Crosbie was somewhat of a big man, a frequent guest at Courcy Castle, and of repute and station in the higher regions of the Metropolitan world.  “The magistrates will be sitting at Paddington, now, sir,—­or will be by the time we get there.”

By this time some mighty railway authority had come upon the scene and made himself cognisant of the facts of the row,—­a stern official who seemed to carry the weight of many engines on his brow; one at the very sight of whom smokers would drop their cigars, and porters close their fists against sixpences; a great man with an erect chin, a quick step, and a well-brushed hat powerful with an elaborately upturned brim.  This was the platform-superintendent, dominant even over the policemen.

“Step into my room, Mr Crosbie,” he said.  “Stubbs, bring that man in with you.”  And then, before Crosbie had been able to make up his mind as to any other line of conduct, he found himself in the superintendent’s room, accompanied by the guard, and by the two policemen who conducted Johnny Eames between them.

“What’s all this?” said the superintendent, still keeping on his hat, for he was aware how much of the excellence of his personal dignity was owing to the arrangement of that article; and as he spoke he frowned upon the culprit with his utmost severity.  “Mr Crosbie, I am very sorry that you should have been exposed to such brutality on our platform.”

“You don’t know what he has done,” said Johnny.  “He is the most confounded scoundrel living.  He has broken—­” But then he stopped himself.  He was going to tell the superintendent that the confounded scoundrel had broken a beautiful young lady’s heart; but he bethought himself that he would not allude more specially to Lily Dale in that hearing.

“Do you know who he is, Mr Crosbie?” said the superintendent.

“Oh, yes,” said Crosbie, whose eye was already becoming blue.  “He is a clerk in the Income-tax Office, and his name is Eames.  I believe you had better leave him to me.”

But the superintendent at once wrote down the words “Income-tax Office—­Eames,” on his tablet.  “We can’t allow a row like that to take place on our platform and not notice it.  I shall bring it before the directors.  It’s a most disgraceful affair, Mr Eames—­most disgraceful.”

But Johnny by this time had perceived that Crosbie’s eye was in a state which proved satisfactorily that his morning’s work had not been thrown away, and his spirits were rising accordingly.  He did not care two straws for the superintendent or even for the policemen, if only the story could be made to tell well for himself hereafter.  It was his object to have thrashed Crosbie, and now, as he looked at his enemy’s face, he acknowledged that Providence had been good to him.

“That’s your opinion,” said Johnny.