He got out at Charing Cross, choosing it in preference to his more usual St. James’s Park, that he might reach Jermyn Street by better lighted ways.

On the platform his eyes⁠—for in combination with a composed and fashionable appearance, George had sharp eyes, and was always on the lookout for fillips to his sardonic humour⁠—his eyes were attracted by a man, who, leaping from a first-class compartment, staggered rather than walked towards the exit.

“So ho, my bird!” said George to himself; “why, it’s the Buccaneer!” and he put his big figure on the trail. Nothing afforded him greater amusement than a drunken man.

Bosinney, who wore a slouch hat, stopped in front of him, spun around, and rushed back towards the carriage he had just left. He was too late. A porter caught him by the coat; the train was already moving on.