Waterloo is the home of imperfect knowledge. The booking clerks cannot
state in a few words where tickets may be bought for any station. They
are only certain that they themselves cannot sell them.
* * * * *
The gloom of the station was lightened on the following morning at ten
minutes to eleven when Mr. Garnet arrived to catch the train to
Axminster, by several gleams of sunshine and a great deal of bustle
and movement on the various platforms. A cheery activity pervaded the
place. Porters on every hand were giving their celebrated imitations
of the car of Juggernaut, throwing as a sop to the wounded a crisp "by
your leave." Agitated ladies were pouring forth questions with the
rapidity of machine guns. Long queues surged at the mouths of the
booking offices, inside which soured clerks, sending lost sheep empty
away, were learning once more their lesson of the innate folly of
mankind. Other crowds collected at the bookstalls, and the bookstall
keeper was eying with dislike men who were under the impression that
they were in a free library.
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