Excerpt from The Argosy, Vol. 41: January to June, 1886
The month was May, the day Whit-Monday, and the hour by St. Olave"s clock half-past two, when the mid-day express from Dover steamed slowly into London Bridge Station, between the densely-crowded platforms.
"We shall not be more than half-an-hour late at Charing," observed a passenger in one of the first-class compartments, with an air of cheerful surprise. "Not bad that for a Bank Holiday."
"Bank Holiday?" echoed his fellow-traveller; "why so it is! Whit-Monday, of course."
If he had had any doubts of the fact the many-coloured posters that met his gaze as he turned impatiently to the window might have convinced him. He got up and looked out, up and down the platform, at them and at the crowd that surged once or twice up to the carriage he was in, but passed on, being mostly composed of second and third-class travellers. He drew back again, seeing a woman, as he thought, about to enter; and dropped into his seat with a look of intense annoyance, which melted into a slightly puzzled expression.
He was puzzled, in fact, at his own annoyance. He had made sure that one Monday was as good as another for his errand in town, and now in some remote corner of his brain there up-started a suggestion that the date was against him somehow, and for all he should get by coming he might as well have stayed at Shorncliffe. An exasperating, undefined little suggestion, that refused to let him catch it and examine it closely.
"I declare I had forgotten all about it," he answered the old gentleman who had addressed him, and who was looking at him with some interest.
He was a pleasant young fellow to look at.
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