Explore "Harrison's Slight Error" by P. G. Wodehouse on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The one o'clock down express was just on the point of starting. The engine-driver, with his hand on the lever, whiled away the moments, like the watchman in The Agamemnon, by whistling. The guard endeavoured to talk to three people at once. Porters flitted to and fro, cleaving a path for themselves with trucks of luggage. The Usual Old Lady was asking if she was right for some place nobody had ever heard of. Everybody was saying goodbye to everybody else, and last, but not least, P. St. H. Harrison, of St. Austin's, was strolling at a leisurely pace towards the rear of the train. There was no need for him to hurry. For had not his friend, Mace, promised to keep a corner seat for him while he went to the refreshment room to lay in supplies? Undoubtedly he had, and Harrison, as he watched the struggling crowd, congratulated himself that he was not as other men.
A corner seat in a carriage full of his own particular friends, with plenty of provisions, and something to read in case he got tired of talking -- it would be perfect.