The Lost Clue

New Street Station, Birmingham, is an exceedingly busy place at all times of the day; but at certain hours, when many trains are due, the bustle, hurry, and rush, in every part of it, are beyond description. Two great lines, the London and North-Western and the Midland, run through it; and although, to the initiated, there is nothing more easy than to locate the part of the station in which the various trains will arrive or from which they will depart, yet to a stranger in Birmingham, especially to one who has come from the quiet of some remote country place, the six different platforms, the numerous booking offices, and the busy stream of human life crossing and re-crossing the great bridge which spans the station from side to side, are both bewildering and perplexing.

It was at the busiest time of the ever-busy New Street day, that the London express came thundering into the station. It had rushed on like some great monster of the deep, flying through air instead of water, puffing, snorting, panting, but never once stopping after leaving Euston, until it came running triumphantly into Birmingham, having accomplished its journey of over a hundred and twelve miles in the short space of two hours.

As it steamed in, a long line of expectant porters awaited its arrival, and, as it began to slacken its speed, they kept their eyes fixed on the line of first-class carriages, for that way lay "tips." There was a dining-saloon on the train, and the first-class part of it was well filled. Most of the passengers were, however, going on further; but one gentleman, with a long kit-bag in his hand, came to the carriage door and prepared to alight from the train.

The porters made a rush in his direction, all eager to relieve him from his burden, and thereby to secure the bakhshish which English porters, as well as Arab ones, are seldom backward in scenting from afar.