thy measur’d dual throbbing and thy beat convulsive
Cis M/cis M, anal sex, roughness, some coercion, implied manipulation/trickery, could be seen as dubcon. Proceed with caution.
Disclaimer: this is a story set in the late Victorian period but I am not a historian so mistakes are very possible. I have pieced together as many facts as I could (with huge help from the book 'The Railways: Nation, Network and People’ by Simon Bradley) but there are a lot of gaps I filled in with guesswork. I chose a route for the journey which seemed plausible but is not historically proven so if you happen to be a railway expert and know for a fact that this is impossible, I can only apologise. The title is taken from the poem ‘To A Locomotive In Winter’ by Walt Whitman who I can only assume shared my position that trains are very sexy.
The city was an odd and unfamiliar place at night and, although Nicholas vastly preferred not to be jostled and trampled, there was a loneliness to it as he perched on the dark platform in Manchester Central station with one hand gripping the handle of his bag so that he would be sure not to leave it behind on the bench. He was already feeling tired from the first leg of the journey, rattled around in a stagecoach with three men who smoked the whole way down so that his head was a trifle dizzy from the fog of pipe tobacco: he dearly hoped that he would be able to manage a decent sleep on the train before his appointment in the morning.
He would not necessarily call Mr Allerton a generous man so much as he might call him a man concerned with appearing to represent a prosperous firm, and thus he had paid for Nicholas to travel in an appropriate amount of comfort by upgrading him to a sleeper compartment. It was all a little thrilling: he had never travelled on a sleeper train before. In fact, as a child, he and his parents had been obliged to use the third class open carriages which were little more than cattle trucks and absolutely hideous in the winter when one got a full face of wind and freezing rain. Despite the discomfort, he had still always found a certain excitement travelling by rail. It still seemed so very magical, being drawn along by a puffing iron beast at great speed, and the freedom and adventure that such travel promised.
Several others were waiting on the platform: a few solitary young men like himself, perhaps also travelling for business, a woman who did not seem to have any luggage at all who he supposed might be meeting somebody who would be alighting here, and an older couple with a large basket and their own travelling rug. Still, this did not seem particularly busy. It must not be a popular station on the route, which already stopped at very few places on its journey down to St Pancras. He was unsure of the traffic that usually passed through, having largely only used Manchester Victoria and London Road before, and then only during the day. There had been little activity since he had arrived other than one long goods train passing through on a different platform, hauling its heavy cargo of coal and wood.
Nicholas was just considering getting up to check the time on the large station clock when he saw what he was waiting for, or rather the cloud of steam that preceded it, emerging from beneath the great wrought iron archway and puffing proudly down the tracks towards them. She was a fine looking engine, small and sleek and built for speed rather than strength and power, appropriate for an express train, and was painted in an attractive deep glossy crimson. He inhaled subtly behind his newspaper as she passed by him, still deeply enjoying the smell of a locomotive in motion, whatever that might be. The sight of the engine also still brought a boyish delight to him, with its mighty pistons working, those enormous wheels, and the cheerful trill of the whistle as she was brought to a halt. Even now, there was a part of him that struggled to accept the fact that this was not a living creature of some kind. Yes, of course, he knew it was made of metal, and he did understand the basics of steam and how that drove an engine, and yet there was still something alive about the thing.
The coaches drawn behind were all a smart looking wood with red flourishes that matched the livery of the engine. He walked down the platform in search of the sleeper carriages. There was no sign of any porters, but he preferred to find his own way in any case. Ah, there it was. Number 8. He squinted at his ticket to confirm, and then stepped up and boarded, searching down the narrow corridor for the compartment that would be his for the next few hours. This train did not supply the Pullman style of accommodation, where passengers would be four to a space in bunk beds with only curtains for privacy, which he gathered was the done thing over in America and on the Continent although less popular in Britain, nor were the beds of the kind that could be transformed from ordinary seats during the day to comfortable couches at night. Instead, this service provided very small, but crucially also private, permanent little cabins in a row, all accessed by this internal corridor.
He slid back the door to his assigned compartment, careful to be as quiet as he could so as not to disturb his neighbours who were likely already asleep if they had travelled all the way down from Scotland. There was a gas light on low which did not immediately strike him as strange, until he saw the human-like form bunched up in the small bed.
Cheeks red at what he immediately assumed to be his own error, he hastily backed out, and stood for a moment in the corridor, checking and checking again the number on his ticket, and then the number on the door. It was undoubtedly the same. The fellow in the bed must then be mistaken, but the horror of needing to awaken him and explain the situation was certainly not one that he relished. Still, he could not simply dither in the corridor until they arrived in London! The train had already begun to move, the floor rocking gently beneath him like the floor of a boat, and he could hear the dutiful chuffing of the locomotive several carriages ahead. He steeled his nerve, and re-entered the compartment.
“Excuse me,” he said softly, inching towards the bed.
There was no response, other than a snuffling snore from the man, who had the sheets drawn almost to his eyebrows so that all Nicholas could see was a head of thick greying brown hair. Still wary of disturbing anybody on the other sides of the doubtless extremely thin walls, he leaned closer, raising his voice.
“Excuse me, sir!”
That did it. The older man, perhaps a shade over forty, reared upright in bed to blink blearily at Nicholas. He wore an impressively large moustache and bushy sideburns which extended almost to his chin.
“What, what? We aren’t in The Smoke already, are we?”
He had that manner of talking that marked him out as having quite a different background to Nicholas, most likely having come from a family with a fair amount of money, who most likely attended Eton or Repton or one of those sorts of schools, and spent most of his youth rowing and playing cricket. It was the kind of man Nicholas had met all too often struggling to make a way in his own career, and the type to instantly put him on guard.
“No no, nothing like that. I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid there must have been a mistake. You see, this is my compartment… or at least, I have a ticket that says so.”
The man in the bed was listening to him with a frown and the manner of a teacher listening to what he had already decided was a lie from a particularly disliked student. Despite being undressed and partially reclining, he did seem to have an air of superiority over the nervous young clerk with his polished black shoes and clean shaven chin.
“Is that so? Well then, if you wouldn’t mind showing me the ticket…”
It wasn’t a question. Nicholas still had the stiff cardboard rectangle in his hand and passed it to his interrogator, who held it up to the gas light to closely examine the details. After a moment, he handed it back with a slight shrug of one shoulder.
“Well, my boy, that does all seem in order. I dare say there’s been some mistake with the allocation of tickets. I’ve seen it happen before you know: it’s the same old problem when these damned stations don’t communicate with each other. Of course there’s always a chance that you got given the wrong number, so I suppose you could check the other compartments to see if there’s any empty, but then there’s always the chance of you being turfed out by somebody else the time we pass through Leicester.”
The thought of going along the entire line of wafer thin doors, knocking to check if they were all occupied, sent the horrors through Nicholas.
“No, I… I suppose I had better go and ask somebody. A member of staff, that is.”
“There’s an attendant at the end of the carriage. Although…”
The man in the bed hesitated, looking closely at Nicholas. His eyes were sharp and keen under their thick eyebrows, and he seemed to take in every inch of the young man’s appearance in a matter of seconds.
“…listen, my boy, you seem a decent sort. As I said, I’ve had this confounded mix-up happen before, and all the staff tend to do is to send whoever arrives second off to an ordinary empty seat. It’s a rotten way of dealing with the whole thing, and you look like you could do with a good sleep on a real bed. I’m used to sharing a bunk and I believe I can fit you in here with me if you don’t mind a bit of a squeeze.”
It certainly wasn’t the night he had envisioned, but he certainly did prefer the sound of a warm bed rather than attempting to get himself any rest sitting upright in an uncomfortable chair for the next few hours before one of the most important meetings of his life.
“I’d be much obliged. Thank you.”
“Not at all, not at all. My name’s Cavendish, by the way.”
“Price,” Nicholas introduced himself with a tip of the hat.
Somewhat awkwardly, given the small space and the lilting of the carriage as well as the other man’s presence, although thankfully Cavendish had politely picked up a newspaper to read as which doubled as a small screen to give him the smallest amount of privacy, Nicholas began to prepare for bed. There was a hook, naturally already taken up with another coat and hat, but which accommodated his own hat and Ulster coat without difficulty. He began to carefully remove the rest of his travelling clothes, folding them neatly as he went so that they would not take up much room, and stowing them safely in his carpet bag alongside the suit he had brought to wear in London. He took out his long nightshirt so that he was able to pull it on the moment he had removed his day shirt, and set the bag down atop his shoes to one side. His spare linen, which he had brought in case the train company did not provide their passengers with any, would go unused.
He had expected Cavendish to shift over to make room for him but the man threw back the linen and, stretching, stood up to allow Nicholas to get in first and occupy the side of the bed which was against the wall. Cavendish was also wearing a nightshirt, white with faded blue stripes, and he was a good deal taller and broader than Nicholas which was made all the more evident in their nightclothes with very little concealment through layers of clothing. Obligingly, Nicholas quickly got down into the narrow bed, experiencing only a moment of what it would have been like to have the space to himself, before his bedmate joined him and pulled the sheets over them both.
This was certainly not his first time sharing a bed with an unknown man: it was fairly commonplace, particularly when travelling. The main difference being that the beds in inns and the like were designed for two bodies, and were of a good size. This little bed felt as though it was precisely the size of one average heighted and fairly trim man, perfectly economical with every inch in order to fit in as many compartments as possible and maximise profit.
“Here, boy, we haven’t a cat in hell’s chance of getting any rest if you lie there like a stiff plank,” Cavendish told him jovially.
With seemingly no concerns about being overly familiar, he set a firm hand on Nicholas’ shoulder and easily rolled him to lie on his side, settling himself behind him with a friendly arm thrown around his waist. He smelled strong, but not unpleasant, of coal tar soap and musk, and he was very warm pressed up against Nicholas’ back, particularly where their bare legs touched. Nicholas was sandwiched between the wall of the compartment in front of him and the wall of Cavendish behind him, and it was strangely quite pleasant, particularly with the rumble of the train that swayed and rocked him as the faithful locomotive raced along her course. He would have thought that given the oddness of the situation it might take quite a while for him to be able to achieve sleep, but the soothing rhythm of the carriage wheels bumping gently along the tracks lulled him quickly into a state of twilight half-awakeness and then, soon after, complete oblivion.
If he dreamt, he did not know it. No time at all seemed to have passed when he opened bleary eyes to a dark room. It took a moment to remember where he was, helped by the immediate sensation of Cavendish’s strong burly arm holding him in an almost loving embrace around the middle, and the feeling of his warm breath on the back of Nicholas’ neck. He must have put out the gas light entirely at some stage. There was a feeling of wrongness, a disquieting something that he could not quite identify until it dawned on him that the train was entirely stationary. Immediately he moved to extricate himself from the arm pinning him to the mattress, but it tightened in response, and he heard a soft rumbling in his ear.
“Calm yourself. We’re only stopped at Kettering: there’s still some leagues left. Unless you need to… refresh yourself?”
“No, I’m… I’m perfectly comfortable.”
He realised that at some point in his sleep his nightshirt must have shifted up, and was grateful that he had thought to keep his drawers on for the sake of propriety. Kettering… he could not imagine the place. Really he knew very little of the country other than the region of the North West from which he originated, and most of what he did know was from railway maps. Any town that did not have tracks running through it may as well not exist to him. He could have pulled back the curtain and peered out of the tiny compartment window to see for himself, but it would be too dark to see much, and he would only see another train station anyway.
Just as he had decided to choose inaction, the bed began to vibrate gently as the train readied itself for movement, only having paused for long enough to let off passengers and accept new ones, still hot and ready to move. He envisioned the smooth oiled pistons beginning to move, propelling the glistening steed rods and turning the huge solid wheels, larger than a cartwheel and ten times as strong. There was the distinctive sound of the steam escaping in a ‘choo, choo’, and they were moving again, a velvety smooth acceleration compared to how some trains jerked and bumped their carriages very disagreeably. Yet as they picked up speed, he couldn’t help but notice that the ride was a little rougher than earlier. Perhaps the track on this stretch of the line was less well-maintained, or the train less perfectly level. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it did have the effect of causing the bed to shake more enthusiastically which in turn led to he and his bedfellow, already pressed so closely together, to bounce and bump against each other even more. He could feel hot breath on the side of his neck, quickened exhalations against the shell of his ear.
It was difficult to tell whether all of it was the motion of the train or if Cavendish was perhaps using that movement as a cover to… no, he must be mistaken. Yet, there it was again: just as the carriage jolted, he was sure that Cavendish deliberately shifted the bulk of his lower body to grind his pelvis against him, strong enough to crush Nicholas more tightly against the wall. Yet it did not feel… it wasn’t disagreeable. He held still, his forehead pressed against the the cool varnished wood, feeling as though his face was very warm indeed. He could feel hot bare flesh against his legs, suggesting that Cavendish’s nightshirt like his must have risen up to his waist, perhaps riding higher with each subsequent gyration of his body.
Any shred of remaining doubt in his mind was utterly obliterated when Cavendish shifted position and he felt a tellingly solid and rigid organ pressed against the swell of his buttocks. In a way, it was a relief to remove the ambiguity and have a firm… a very firm answer. It meant that he felt almost ready to accept the way his own anatomy had begun to stiffen in response to the contact with another warm body. He was choosing to not think about it whatsoever, lying perfectly still and pretending that he had not noticed anything unbecoming whatsoever, or may even have fallen back asleep.
He was just formulating a vague plan to copy Cavendish’s method of using the train’s motion as cover in order to reposition himself so that he could push his lower body more firmly against the wall in the hope of giving himself a little more stimulation in his needy, aching member, when the unthinkable happened. Cavendish’s arm had been flung casually around his middle up until this point, holding him close. Without any warning, that self-same arm slid further down his waist and the hand boldly sought out the waistband of his drawers. Nicholas was forced to break his pretended sleep to push defensively at Cavendish’s hand, shielding his treacherous manhood as much as he could, flooded with panic at the thought of being discovered.
“Now listen here, I hope I’ve not given you the wrong impression here, but I’m not… I’m not that way at all,” he said hastily, turning his head to speak in a rapid low voice, very aware of how thin the walls between these compartments must be.
“Nor I, dear boy, nor I,” Cavendish’s voice was low and deep, and rumbled out of his chest against Nicholas’ shoulderblades, “It is a peculiarity of the train, not of our nature.”
Nicholas assumed that he was referring to the way that the motion of the train had been increasing the contact between them, which indeed had been his own means of justification, had he thought about it in any more detail, which he was choosing not to do. However, Cavendish continued:
“Have you heard about the madness of the railways?”
“You mean the stories in the newspapers about how being on trains causes some men to lose their minds and attack other people? I thought all of that was balderdash.”
Cavendish had not ceased in grinding himself against Nicholas in rhythm with the carriage wheels rattling along the rails. The way that Nicholas had turned his head to face him more directly to ease their conversation meant that he could smell tobacco and coffee on the man’s breath which puffed out hot against his cheek.
“The phenomenon is real, but the newspapers did a tremendously bad job of reporting it,” Cavendish murmured, his lips very close to Nicholas’ ear, “They focused on the more lurid incidents of violence. The truth is that the vibrations of the railways can cause all manner of emotional response, whether anger or fear or… excitement. It stirs the blood, you see, and stimulates the nerves.”
The thick bristles of his moustache brushed lightly against Nicholas’s skin as he spoke, and Nicholas shuddered, certainly feeling as though his nerves were being stimulated and not merely by the motion of the locomotive. His own hand rested more limply on the front of his underclothing and he only made a weak show of protestation when Cavendish began to unbutton the fly of his drawers with rapid, dexterous movements.
“I would never usually… I am not that sort…” Nicholas said quietly.
“Shh, shh. It is only a temporary condition, but it should be dealt with swiftly just in case it escalates into something more worrisome.”
As with the way he disguised the movements of his body with that of the train, Cavendish seemed to have a knack of acting while speaking, perhaps using his voice as a distraction, and while he had been saying that last statement he had somehow managed to slide his hand down and wrap it firmly around Nicholas’ shaft with the same easy confidence with which he conducted all of his actions. Nicholas gritted his teeth hard to stifle the sound he nearly made, while Cavendish clucked sympathetically in his ear.
“By Jove that can’t be comfortable. Not to worry: we’ll get you taken care of.”
Nicholas’ hand flew to press hard over his mouth, desperate to keep himself quiet while he found his cock being masterfully manipulated by the large and powerful hand of his companion. It seemed as though Cavendish was in no particular rush, stroking him slowly and almost teasingly, taking time over it and not appearing to be the slightest bit unsure of what he was doing. Nicholas squirmed involuntarily at one particularly tantalising brush of the pad of the thumb along the underside of his member, the tight space in which he was pressed meaning that he ended up twisting his body tighter into Cavendish’s embrace. With his drawers now having found themselves halfway down to his knees, he realised with a start that there was now nothing whatsoever separating their lower halves, and he could feel the hardness against his skin now entirely unencumbered by fabric, red hot and raw, nudging between the cheeks of his backside.
He barely had time to process what was happening as strong hands came down and gripped his hips, dragging him suddenly backwards and rolling him over to his front, his face hitting the pillow and a knee insinuating itself firmly between his thighs and forcing them apart.
“Steady on!” he said quickly, raising himself up on his elbows.
There was a sound behind him in the darkness, a sort of clicking, and then a wet viscous noise which he only managed to identify when he felt a liquid of some kind drip onto his upper thigh: an oil of some kind, he presumed, and dimly wondered why precisely Cavendish seemed to be so prepared for this very particular situation.
“Calm yourself, my boy. I won’t hurt you.”
Cavendish’s voice was a low rasp, clipped and rough, but his oil-slick hand was almost gentle as he pushed Nicholas back against the mattress, holding him down with a firm palm between the shoulderblades, guiding but not actually restraining. He barely had time to take a shallow breath in preparation before he felt a blunt, solid pressure against his arse: he felt that surely his body would never be able to accept such an intrusion. Perhaps he ought to shove the other man away and make a hasty exit before it was too late. He did not believe Cavendish would actually attempt to stop him. Yet, despite the panic beating around his brain, his heart beating rapidly in his ribcage… he did not attempt to leave.
A sudden push, and he slammed his face down into the pillow, groaning desperately into the cotton weave. It hurt, and not an insignificant amount, and it was difficult to force down the urges to yell out, although thankfully his fear of discovery was far more significant than his discomfort.
“There’s a good chap. Deep breaths now. Halfway in.”
Halfway?! It felt impossible that he could take any more of the thing, although the pain was already beginning to become more bearable, if not to lessen, and the whole thing didn’t feel… unpleasant. Cavendish was giving him a moment to adjust, the consummate gentleman, kneeling above him with his hand stroking small soothing circles down his spine. He could hear him breathing, fast and hard, with want, with need, need for him, the thought of which was oddly quite flattering. Somewhere on its long linear path towards the capital city, the express train had hit a particularly sharp bend and the carriage swayed around them, the entire bed seeming to rock, and with it Nicholas’ prone body, somehow seeming to careen from side to side entirely independently from Cavendish who remained solid and unmoving as a mountain, centred around his prodigious cock on which Nicholas felt he was swinging like a pendulum.
Without any warning, Cavendish leant forwards on his knees, allowing gravity and the substantial weight of his body to drive himself to the hilt. Nicholas bit down on the pillow, fingers desperately scrabbling at the sheet until he managed to get enough to grip onto, as that might help him regain a modicum of control. He could feel a bead of sweat trickle down between his eyebrows, breathing hard through his nostrils.
“Oh, good boy…” Cavendish murmured into his ear, “You’ll be a good little wife for me, won’t you? A little treat for the journey.”
For some infernal reason he felt his member twitch and throb desperately between his stomach and the mattress at those words. He clenched his teeth around his mouthful of pillow and did not respond, which was apparently answer enough as he heard a soft knowing chuckle and felt the brush of lips against the nape of his neck, a gentleness that was directly juxtapositioned with the way Cavendish began to move inside him, pulling halfway out and then ramming immediately back, the bulk of his stomach pressing down on the lower back beneath him, weighing him down into the bed. Nicholas choked down a muffled yelp, clenching his eyes closed as though that would make any difference. It all felt too much to bear, and yet every brief moment when the other man ceased movement was absolute torture.
Cavendish laughed aloud at the involuntary groan of complaint when he drew back, leaving Nicholas suddenly feeling very empty, oil dripping down his thighs.
“Worry not, dear boy: I’m not finished with you just yet,” he seized Nicholas by the hips, hauling him up onto his knees.
He was truly astonished, now that he was kneeling up on the bed, that Cavendish seemed to have absolutely no problem with maintaining a similar position, remaining upright and vertical with barely a tremor, and meanwhile Nicholas was trembling and unsteady on a mattress which seemed to be in constant unpredictable motion. Strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close to a large hairy chest, and two hands were sliding up the nightshirt which had risen to mid-rib. He gasped softly as both of his nipples were tweaked and pinched, pulled more than a little roughly, and he tipped his head back to try and see a vague outline of Cavendish’s profile in the darkness.
Dark and glittering eyes were fixed on him with an intensity that almost made him believe that somehow he possessed a much greater night vision than Nicholas himself, who could barely discern a thing. At the very least, he had been caught looking, and Cavendish took the opportunity to cup a hand around his jaw to hold it precisely where it was, giving him a hungry kiss, the kiss of a lover, wet lips parted. For a brief moment he felt the tongue of the other man inside his mouth, against his teeth, and felt as though he ought to be horrified by it, even moreso than the buggery, and yet it seemed to supply something that he had no knowledge he had been lacking.
Once more without any warning he was manhandled onto his hands and knees, then his face was back onto the pillow with his arse up in the air, and Cavendish had roughly plunged back inside him. This time it didn’t hurt at all, as though his body had already become accustomed to its new purpose, but the intensity of feeling was impossibly even more heightened by the change in position. Every thrust drew itself along unknown dormant parts of his body, like a being filled with electrical charge that found itself desperate for discharge.
He was not a particularly strong man, and it was difficult to keep himself up on his knees when the significantly larger bulk of Cavendish slammed against the backs of his thighs, pistoning in and out with enough strength to send him sprawling if he allowed it. At some point in the proceedings he had divested his pretences of passivity in order to brace his hands against the carriage wall purely to try and remain upright. He no longer had his pillow to stop up his jaw and apparently had neglected to pay attention to the noises he was making; suddenly there was a hand clamped over his mouth, pulling his head back a little uncomfortably to suit the difficult angle. Nicholas couldn’t hold back any longer, moaning pitifully against his palm as he was fucked mercilessly.
Cavendish’s other hand curled around the base of Nicholas’ prick which had been bouncing feebly against his thigh with each thrust. He gripped it like a handle to hold him in place, a tight hold that had his charge huffing raggedly, actually seeming to use the leverage to assist in maintaining a rhythmic motion, occasionally squeezing with a roughness which should not have been pleasurable. Nicholas felt that perhaps he had reached a point of complete physical transcendence where anything would have felt good to him.
He could no longer feel the movement of the train carriage on the tracks, was barely aware of his location whatsoever, hardly even cognizant of his own name and circumstance, only of the tight rising heat building in his body until it felt almost too much to bear and he felt he was about to pass out, and then all in an instant he was overcome with the agony of bliss, spilling hot seed across Cavendish’s fist. The hand that was covering his mouth gripped the entire front of his face, hard, fingernails digging into his cheek, as he in turn inadvertently bit down on the flesh of the palm that was shoved between his teeth to silence him. He could barely breathe, tears spilling between clenched eyelids, and still his release came, vibrating its way out of him.
Holding up his own weight seemed completely impossible now and he slumped bonelessly in Cavendish’s arms while the man took his own pleasure from his body, pounding relentlessly into him until, with a much more restrained grunt, he buried himself deep and stilled, and Nicholas could feel his cock throb inside him as it pumped its spend into his guts. He could only shudder as the mighty instrument was drawn from him and he was unceremoniously shunted back to the wall side of the bed, this time facing Cavendish who wrapped him up in a tight embrace, his face now pillowed in the carpet of sweaty chest hair.
By the time they had arrived at St Pancras, Nicholas felt that his temporary madness had subsided, and he dressed in mortified silence, not daring to glance back at the figure in the bed, illuminated by the dawnlight creeping under the curtain and by the glowing bowl of the pipe he was smoking in flagrant disregard of the policies of smoking in the sleeper carriages. He did not speak until he had gathered all his belongings and the train had come to her final puffing halt in the safe embrace of the wrought iron arches, at which point politeness insisted he give a tip of the hat and a muttered “well, goodbye.”
With a much more leisurely attitude, knowing from experience that the train would stay on the platform for some time yet in order for the sleepers to rise and make their shambling way out into the world, Cavendish began to stretch and slowly locate his own items, watching with some amusement as Nicholas scurried off with as much composure as one could while still filled with another man’s semen. Well, he supposed he might spend an enjoyable morning in Camden Town before it was time for luncheon, and perhaps he would undertake an errand or two in the city before it was time to find his next train: he was considering the sleeper that would span the skirt of the country and take him to Devon. It was a shame that he had made it a rule never to use the same service twice in a row out of concern of being caught: he knew he was unlikely to meet that delightful pliant young man again. Still, that was the beauty of the whole thing in a way, with plenty more trains to ride, and the boys that they would bring.
