I sat opposite to him and read Punch. I always take the
old humour when travelling; I find it soothing to the nerves.
Passing over the points at Manningtree the train gave a lurch, and
a horse-shoe he had carefully placed in the rack above him slipped
through the netting, falling with a musical ring upon his head.
He appeared neither surprised nor angry. Having staunched the
wound with his handkerchief, he stooped and picked the horse-shoe
up, glanced at it with, as I thought, an expression of reproach,
and dropped it gently out of the window.
"Did it hurt you?" I asked.
It was a foolish question. I told myself so the moment I had
uttered it. The thing must have weighed three pounds at the least;
it was an exceptionally large and heavy shoe. The bump on his head
was swelling visibly before my eyes. Anyone but an idiot must have
seen that he was hurt. I expected an irritable reply. I should
have given one myself had I been in his place. Instead, however,
he seemed to regard the inquiry as a natural and kindly expression
of sympathy.
"It did, a little," he replied.
"What were you doing with it?" I asked.
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