The old gentleman.

           AftertheadventureofPeter’sCoal-mine,itseemedwelltothechildrentokeepawayfromthestation—buttheydidnot,theycouldnot,keepawayfromtherailway.Theyhadlivedalltheirlivesinastreetwherecabsandomnibusesrumbledbyatallhours,andthecartsofbutchersandbakersandcandlestickmakers(Ineversawacandlestick-maker’scart;didyou?)mightoccuratanymoment.Hereinthedeepsilenceofthesleepingcountrytheonlythingsthatwentbywerethetrains.Theyseemedtobeallthatwaslefttolinkthechildrentotheoldlifethathadoncebeentheirs.StraightdownthehillinfrontofThreeChimneysthedailypassageoftheirsixfeetbegantomarkapathacrossthecrisp,shortturf.Theybegantoknowthehourswhencertaintrainspassed,andtheygavenamestothem.The9.15upwascalledtheGreenDragon.The10.7downwastheWormofWantley.Themidnighttownexpress,whoseshriekingrushtheysometimeswokefromtheirdreamstohear,wastheFearsomeFly-by-night.Petergotuponce,inchillstarshine,and,peepingatitthroughhiscurtains,nameditonthespot.

           ItwasbytheGreenDragonthattheoldgentlemantravelled.Hewasaverynice-lookingoldgentleman,andhelookedasifhewerenice,too,whichisnotatallthesamething.Hehadafresh-coloured,clean-shavenfaceandwhitehair,andheworeratherodd-shapedcollarsandatop-hatthatwasn’texactlythesamekindasotherpeople’s.Ofcoursethechildrendidn’tseeallthisatfirst.