He
climbed into a second-class compartment when the train drew up,
and ten other people, all with third-class tickets, followed his
example; three persons were already seated therein. The
compartment was illuminated by one lamp, and in the Bleakridge
Tunnel this lamp expired. Everything reminded him of his youth.
In twenty minutes he was leaving Turnhill station and entering the
town. It was about nine o'clock, and colder than winters of the
period usually are. The first thing he saw was an electric tram,
and the second thing he saw was another electric tram. In Toby's
time there were no trams at Turnhill, and the then recently-
introduced steam-trams between Bursley and Longshaw, long since
superseded, were regarded as the final marvel of science as
applied to traction. And now there were electric trams at
Turnhill! The railway renewed his youth, but this darting
electricity showed him how old he was. The Town Hall, which was
brand-new when he left Turnhill, had the look of a mediaeval hotel
de ville as he examined it in the glamour of the corporation's
incandescent gas. And it was no more the sole impressive pile in
the borough. The High Street and its precincts abounded in
impressive piles. He did not know precisely what they were, but
they had the appearance of being markets, libraries, baths, and
similar haunts of luxury; one was a bank.
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