The Cruise of the Gyro-Car

Among the passengers who alighted from the train at the terminus of Shepperton, the little village near the Thames, one evening in early summer, was a young man differing noticeably, but in a way not easy to define, from all the rest. He was tall, but so were many; dark, but most men are dark; bronzed, but the young men who spent idle hours in sculling or punting on the river were as suntanned as he. Nor was it anything in his attire that marked him out from his fellow-men, unless, perhaps, that he was a trifle “smarter” than they. Yet many eyes had been attracted to him as he walked down the platform at Waterloo, and many followed him, at Shepperton station, as he stepped out of the compartment and doffed his soft hat to a young girl, who stood evidently awaiting him, and whose face lit up at his approach.

“Hullo, kid!” he said, in the young Briton’s casual manner of greeting. “Where’s George?”

“He’ll be here in a minute or two,” replied the girl. “I am glad to see you, Maurice.”

“Thanks. How’s Aunt?”


“The same as ever,” said the girl with a smile. “Have you brought your luggage?”

“Just a valise. The porter has it. Take it to that fly, will you?” he added, as the man came up.

“Oh! Wait a minute,” said his sister, laying a hand on his arm. “George will be here in a minute.”

“That means ten, unless George has reformed. Well, well, children must be humoured.”

Brother and sister stood side by side chatting. The porter set the valise down by the fence. We may take advantage of the delay to explain that Maurice Buckland was one of the secretaries of the British agency at Sofia, and had come home on short leave. It was nearly two years since he was last in England. Affairs in the Balkans had been in a very ticklish condition, the focus of interest to all the chancelleries of Europe. A grave crisis had just been settled peaceably after a long diplomatic game of Puss in the Corner, and Buckland was at last free to take his well-earned holiday.