¹The station at Fellbridge had one platform, one bench and one lamp, and at a quarter to midnight all three were empty except for Tom and his suitcase. His aunt had promised that the train would stop, but the timetable in its glass case was so faded that he could not read it, and the ticket office had been locked since the afternoon.

²He had never travelled alone before. In the daytime that had seemed exciting. Now, with the hills black against a sky only slightly less black, it seemed a foolish thing to have agreed to.

³Somewhere far down the valley a sound began: not a whistle exactly, more a long sigh, as though the hills themselves were breathing out. Then came a tremble in the rails, so faint that at first Tom thought he had imagined it. He put his hand on the cold metal of the bench and felt the shiver pass up through his arm.

⁴Two lights swung round the bend. For a moment they seemed to float, unattached to anything, and then the engine was there, enormous and hissing, pouring steam across the platform so thickly that the lamp became a smudge of yellow. Doors clattered. A guard leaned out, saw Tom, and waved an arm.

⁵“Fellbridge! You for Carlisle, son? Jump in, we’re three minutes down already.”

⁶Tom heaved his suitcase up the step. The carriage was warm and smelled of coal smoke and old leather, and a woman asleep in the corner did not stir as he squeezed past. He found an empty compartment, slid the door shut and sat down with his back to the engine.

⁷The train jerked, paused, and jerked again. Through the window the single lamp of Fellbridge slid backwards and was gone. Tom pressed his forehead against the glass and watched the dark fields roll by, and found, rather to his surprise, that he was no longer frightened at all.