The future seemed wholly gloomy. And,
so far from attempting to make the best of things, he had set himself
deliberately to look on the dark side. He thought, for instance, that he
had never seen a more repulsive porter, or one more obviously
incompetent than the man who had attached himself with a firm grasp to
the handle of the bag as he strode off in the direction of the luggage
van. He disliked his voice, his appearance, and the color of his hair.
Also the boots he wore. He hated the station, and the man who took
his ticket.
"Young gents at the school, sir," said the porter, perceiving from
Mike's _distrait_ air that the boy was a stranger to the place, "goes up
in the bus mostly. It's waiting here, sir. Hi, George!"
"I'll walk, thanks," said Mike frigidly.
"It's a goodish step, sir."
"Here you are."
"Thank you, sir. I'll send up your luggage by the bus, sir. Which 'ouse
was it you was going to?"
"Outwood's."
"Right, sir. It's straight on up this road to the school. You can't miss
it, sir."
"Worse luck," said Mike.
He walked off up the road, sorrier for himself than ever. It was such
absolutely rotten luck. About now, instead of being on his way to a
place where they probably ran a Halma team instead of a cricket eleven,
and played hunt-the-slipper in winter, he would be on the point of
arriving at Wrykyn.
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