The Wrong Box

nt 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 crowde

tilted back after the fashion of those that lie in wait for nursery-maids, the

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 w

ed. ‘Uncle Joseph!

his companion, and once more closed

pair had jumped in

’ enquired the younger traveller, moppin

t comer, my Uncle Joseph, I can tell you! Very respectable old gentleman; interested in leather; been

d party, eh?’ su

rather cheery I dare say, on a desert island, but on a railway journey insupportable.

u’re one of these Finsbury tontine

th a hundred thousand pounds to me? There he was asleep, and nobody th

uggage van, was flitting to and

bury, 16 John Street, Bloomsbury, London.” M. stands for

. ‘He’s a little cousin of mine. I like him myself, because he’s afraid of me. He’s one of the ornaments of Bloomsbury, an

d Mr Wickham. ‘By George, here’s a tack-hammer! We might send al

ised by the sound of voices, ope

, gentlemen,’ said he, whe

me, Wickham?’

to travel in a van,

n Mr Wickham was left alone over his diversions on the one side, and on

as the train began to slacken speed before Bishopstoke station

acts than he instantly assumed the offensive, fell on the flank of the Wallachian forces, and, in the inside of three days, had the satisfaction to behold them routed and fleeing for the Danube. It is no business of ours to follow them on this retreat, over which the police were so obliging as to preside paternally. Thus relieved from what he loved to refer to as the Bulgarian Atrocity, Mr Wickham returned to London with the most unbounded and embarrassing gratitude and admiration for his saviour. These sen

rate, more by token, in his native county) was no sooner alone in the van than he fell upon the labels with all the zeal of a reformer; and, when he

and. These cousins of yours have a packing-case as big as a house. I’ve muddled the whole busine

care,’ said Michael. ‘I am getting tired of your per

total loss of reputation, six and eightpence.” But,’ continued Mr Wickham with more seriousness, ‘could I be bowled out of the Commi

ll chuck you out sooner or later. Somehow you do

ntry gentleman. Suppose we start one of those tontine affairs ourselves; I to pay five hun

ve laugh, as he lighted a cigar, ‘it strikes me that

his cushions, delighted with the compliment. ‘Yes, I suppose I am a nuisance

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