Harry yawned, not from fatigue, but from boredom.  Travelling was so tiresome, even in First Class.  A rattling journey by train encapsulated in a sea of dark wood and seats the colour of peas.  The conductor on the train today was churlish, where did this railway get their staff? Harry stared blankly out the window at the landscape.  Rugged scrubland and fleeting lots of water, Harry pitied his friend Robert Carrington for hailing from this dismal place. 

A place so provincial, the inbred locals, had presumably elected a common bream for mayor. Indeed, Harry had been invited to sojourn in Brighton by a pair of well-heeled young ladies, but it was out of loyalty, and the eternal bond of the ‘old school tie’ that he had made the trek north in search of his friend. Cambridge was hard for Harry without him, both scholastically and socially, so like a much more attractive, and capable Sherlock Holmes, Harry had set out to look for him.

“Cloughton Next station.  Next station Cloughton.” An official voice boomed down the first-class interior corridor.

Harry rose from his seat, slid the compartment door open, poked his head into the vestibule.

“You there!  How much further to Whitby?”

The conductor turned upon hearing the question and responded in a tone that Harry didn’t quite care for.

“Seven stops, sir. Ravenscar, Fyling Hall, Robin Hood's Bay, Hawsker, -“

Harry didn’t want to listen to the man rattle off the timetable.  If he wanted that, he could read the bloody thing in the booklet.

“Oh forget it!” Harry said curtly, sliding the door closed.  He returned to his seat and crumpled himself deep into its woollen pile.