Nigel Browning

"e;HERE, I want this luggage taken-Hallo, Pollard! You're the man for me."e;"e;Mr. Nigel Browning!"e; ejaculated the porter addressed, a huge individual six feet three in height, and massive in frame, with a large face, resplendently good-humoured. He had been heaving great trunks and packing-cases out of the van, tossing one upon another, as a girl might heap together a pile of band-boxes. Now the train passed on groaning dismally after the fashion of these modern behemoths; and the platform crowd began to disperse. It was past nine o'clock on a chilly autumn evening: not the kind of evening which might tempt anybody to linger under the flaring gas-lights, dimmed by fogginess. Pollard, in full career across the platform, brought up his truck with a jerk on hearing his own name, then plucked at his cap with an air of delight. "e;Mr. Nigel Browning!"e; he exclaimed. "e;To be sure. Whom else would you take me for? Shake hands, Pollard. I've been round the world since I saw you last."e;The man's hard palm closed with a grip round the fingers held out to him. "e;And you ain't changed, Mr. Nigel. No need for to ask that, though. If you was, you wouldn't be a-shaking hands with me here, like to old days. And the niggers ain't got hold of you, nor none of they cannibals neither."e;