Pigeon Post. Arthur Ransome

CHAPTER I

      BEGINNING ALREADY

      “HERE … I say … Yes … That’s me …”

      Roger swallowed a bit of chocolate unsucked and unbitten. He and Titty leaned together from the doorway of the railway carriage. The train had stopped at the junction. There were ten miles more to go along the little branch line that led into the hills. Somewhere down the platform milk-cans were being shifted, making a loud clanging noise, so that, at first, they had not heard what the porter was calling out as he walked along the train, looking into one carriage after another. Now they heard it plainly.

      “Mr Walker … Mr Roger Walker … Mr Walkerrr …” The porter was going from door to door all down the train.

      Roger jumped from the carriage while the porter was still two doors away.

      “It’s me,” he said. “I’m Roger Walker.”

      The porter looked at him.

      “You, is it?” he said. “Come along with me then. We’ve no time to lose, but they’ll be a minute or two yet with them cans. Eh? Eh? … It’s a basket for you. There was two, but one was for folk that come by the earlier train. We’ve to let fly before your train goes on. This way. We mun look sharp now. I’ve left it ready at end o’ t’ platform.”

      Titty was just getting out when a farmer’s wife blocked the way making ready to get in.

      “Here, my dear, you take a hold of this bag,” she said.

      Titty took it and put it on the seat. The farmer’s wife handed up one parcel after another and then climbed up herself.

      “Losh! the heat,” she said, mopping her face and counting her parcels. “This weather’s enough to maze a body’s brains … Three … five … and two’s … Nay, that’s nobbut six …”

      Titty, what with the farmer’s wife and the clatter of the milk cans, had not heard what the porter had said, but she saw him hurrying off and Roger running beside him. She looked at their own small suitcases and hesitated.

      “Nay, nobody’ll touch them,” said the farmer’s wife.

      “Thank you very much,” said Titty, jumped down, and ran after Roger and the porter.

      “But what is it?” Roger was asking, cantering sideways and just dodging a milk-can that was in the way.

      “Pigeon,” said the porter. “Here you are now. Take this pencil. You’ve the book to sign.”

      Roger, taking the pencil, signed his name in the place the porter showed him. Titty was already looking at the basket, a brown, varnished, wicker