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.

Robert wasn't expecting Harry. If he was, he would have written to his friend to bugger off back to Cambridge. He didn't want Harry or any of his friends back at university to know about the humiliation his father was subjecting him to.

He was loading goods into a carriage, not minding that he was tossing them, and cursing with every piece.

"Carrington! There's another train coming in on platform 2 in two minutes. Go help people with their luggage!"

Robert would love to tell the manager to shove the entire train up a place where the sun didn't shine. But he pressed his lips tight, didn't respond to the manager, and made his way to platform 2.

The train puffed steadily into Whitby before grinding to a loud halt. Harry, for his part, stepped down to the platform with the confidence of youth and the arrogance of wealth.

"Would you help me with by things?" he said to a passing porter. It was not a request. It was their job after all, and Harry had suddenly lost the use of his arms.

Who was this arrogant twit who thought that he could... Oh shit. Robert looked away, muttered something like an excuse and began to walk away quickly. What was that twit doing here at the station, right at this moment too!?

Harry did not appreciate being ignored. Especially by grubby work-a-day men

"You! I say, you there! Don't walk away from me! Help me with this case."

Robert walked away faster.

"CARRINGTON! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU UP TO!?" the manager shouted.

Harry blinked in confusion at the shout. CARRINGTON?

"Robert? Is that you?" Harry shouted. Surely not? Robert had three brothers? A chortle started to form in his throat at the thought of his friend having a job.

Robert turned, took Harry's case, and hissed: "This way, you complete buffoon." He led them into a deserted waiting room.

It was Robert! Harry smiled broadly and picked up his own case, dutifully following his friend.

"I say! Is this a new game? Dress like a poor person and pretend to do a job?" The idle rich of Whitby had a strange sense of fun. Harry continued "Or did you lose a bucket of money on the 2:30 at Cheltenham?"

"Neither," said Robert, though coming to think of it, brushing it off as slumming would have been a good strategy. "This is the working classes not knowing their place anymore, and I'll tell you what else, Hardcastle. You'll be next. I can't talk now. But meet me at ten at the Angel Inn." Now that Harry was here and had seen him like this, he might as well make himself useful. Robert could do with an ally.