Kate Carnegie and Those Ministers | Page 4

the dust
of the station, the moving carriages with their various colours, the
shouts of railway officials, the recurring panics of fussy passengers,
begin to affect the nerves. Conversation becomes broken, porters are
beset on every side with questions they cannot answer, rushes are made

on any empty carriages within reach, a child is knocked down and
cries.
Over all this excitement and confusion one man is presiding, untiring,
forceful, ubiquitous--a sturdy man, somewhere about five feet ten,
whose lungs are brass and nerves fine steel wire. He is dressed, as to
his body, in brown corduroy trousers, a blue jacket and waistcoat with
shining brass buttons, a grey flannel shirt, and a silver-braided cap,
which, as time passes, he thrusts further back on his head till its peak
stands at last almost erect, a crest seen high above the conflict. As to
the soul of him, this man is clothed with resolution, courage, authority,
and an infectious enthusiasm. He is the brain and will of the whole
organism, its driving power. Drivers lean out of their engines, one hand
on the steam throttle, their eyes fixed on this man; if he waves his
hands, trains move; if he holds them up, trains halt. Strings of carriages
out in the open are carrying out his plans, and the porters toil like
maniacs to meet his commands. Piles of luggage disappear as he directs
the attack, and his scouts capture isolated boxes hidden among the
people. Every horse box has a place in his memory, and he has
calculated how many carriages would clear the north traffic; he carries
the destination of families in his head, and has made arrangements for
their comfort. "Soon ready now, sir," as he passed swiftly down to
receive the last southerner, "and a second compartment reserved for
you," till people watched for him, and the sound of his voice, "forrit wi'
the Hielant luggage," inspired bewildered tourists with confidence, and
became an argument for Providence. There is a general movement
towards the northern end of the station; five barrows, whose luggage
swings dangerously and has to be held on, pass in procession; dogs are
collected and trailed along in bundles; families pick up their bags and
press after their luggage, cheered to recognise a familiar piece peeping
out from strange goods; a bell is rung with insistence. The Aberdeen
express leaves--its passengers regarding the platform with pity--and the
guard of the last van slamming his door in triumph. The great man
concentrates his force with a wave of his hand for the tour de force of
the year, the despatch of the Hielant train.
The southern end of the platform is now deserted--the London express

departed half an hour ago with thirteen passengers, very crestfallen and
envious--and across the open centre porters hustle barrows at headlong
speed, with neglected pieces of luggage. Along the edge of the
Highland platform there stretches a solid mass of life, close-packed,
motionless, silent, composed of tourists, dogs, families, lords, dogs,
sheep farmers, keepers, clericals, dogs, footmen, commercials, ladies'
maids, grooms, dogs, waiting for the empty train that, after deploying
hither and thither, picking up some trifle, a horse box or a duke's saloon,
at every new raid, is now backing slowly in for its freight. The
expectant crowd has ceased from conversation, sporting or otherwise;
respectable elderly gentlemen brace themselves for the scramble, and
examine their nearest neighbours suspiciously; heads of families gather
their belongings round them by signs and explain in a whisper how to
act; one female tourist--of a certain age and severe aspect--refreshes her
memory as to the best window for the view of Killiecrankie. The
luggage has been piled in huge masses at each end of the siding; the
porters rest themselves against it, taking off their caps, and wiping their
foreheads with handkerchiefs of many colours and uses. It is the
stillness before the last charge; beyond the outermost luggage an arm is
seen waving, and the long coil of carriages begins to twist into the
station.
People who know their ancient Muirtown well, and have taken part in
this day of days, will remember a harbour of refuge beside the
book-stall, protected by the buffers of the Highland siding on one side
and a breakwater of luggage on the other, and persons within this
shelter could see the storming of the train to great advantage.
Carmichael, the young Free Kirk minister of Drumtochty, who had
been tasting the civilisation of Muirtown overnight and was waiting for
the Dunleith train, leant against the back of the bookstall, watching the
scene with frank, boyish interest. Rather under six feet in height, he
passed for more, because he stood so straight and looked so slim, for
his limbs were as slender as a woman's, while women (in Muirtown)