As the last minutes jerked away on the big station clock above wreaths of smoke and steam the city gentlemen sat with jocular expectation on the edges of carriage seats or actually craning necks from carriage windows, as if ready to check with stop watches the end of Harry Barnfield’s race with time. ‘Running it pretty fine tonight.’ ‘Doomed. Never make it.’ ‘Oh! trust Harry.’ ‘Absolutely doomed. Never make it.’ ‘Oh! Harry’ll make it. Trust Harry. Never fluked it yet. Trust Harry.’ All Harry Barnfield’s friends, like himself, lived in the country, kept farms at a heavy loss and came to London for business every day. J. B. (Punch) Warburton, who was in shipping and every other day or so brought up from his farm little perforated boxes of fresh eggs for less fortunate friends in the city, would get ready, in mockery, to hold open the carriage door. ‘Action stations.’ J. B. Warburton, a wit, was not called Punch for nothing. ‘Grappling hooks at ready!’ ‘This is a bit of bad.
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