His hand, in his trousers pocket, buries
itself with a feeling of satisfaction in the heavy mixed coinage that
is his share of the profits of his conjuring at the fair. His noiseless
tennis-shoes bear him to the station, where, unobserved, he listens
at the ticket office to the voice of That-which-was-James. "One
first London," it says and Gerald, waiting till That and the
Ugly-Wugly have strolled on to the platform, politely conversing
of politics and the Kaffir market, takes a third return to London.
The train strides in, squeaking and puffing. The watched take their
seats in a carriage blue-lined. The watcher springs into a yellow
wooden compartment. A whistle sounds, a flag is waved. The train
pulls itself together, strains, jerks, and starts.
"I don't understand," says Gerald, alone in his third- class carriage,
"how railway trains and magic can go on at the same time."
And yet they do.
Mabel and Kathleen, nervously peering among the rhododendron
bushes and the bracken and the fancy fir-trees, find six several
heaps of coats, hats, skirts, gloves, golf-clubs, hockey- sticks,
broom-handles. They carry them, panting and damp, for the
mid-day sun is pitiless, up the hill to where the stone dinosaurus
looms immense among a forest of larches. The dinosaurus has a
hole in his stomach. Kathleen shows Mabel how to "make a back"
and climbs up on it into the cold, stony inside of the monster.
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