From my Uncle Podger's house to the railway station it was eight minutes' walk. Every day he went to town by the nine-thirteen train. What my uncle always said was:

"Allow yourself a quarter of an hour, and don't hurry."

What he always did was to start five minutes before the time and run. I do not know why, but this was the habit of the suburb. Many stout gentlemen lived in the suburb in those days — I believe some live there still — and went to town by early trains. They all started late. They all carried a black bag and a newspaper in one hand, and an umbrella in the other. And for the last quarter of a mile to the station, wet or fine, they ran.

It was not a very pleasant spectacle. They did not run well, they did not even run fast, but they did their best.

It was not that my uncle did not rise early enough. It was that different troubles came to him at the last moment. The first thing he usually did after breakfast was to lose his newspaper. We always knew when Uncle Podger had lost something. On such occasions he looked at everybody in the house with an expression of astonished indignation. My Uncle Podger never said to himself:

"I am a careless old man. I lose everything. I never know where I have put anything. I cannot find it again myself. I must try to be more careful in future."

On the contrary, he was sure that when he lost a thing it was not his fault but ours.

Here is one of the usual morning scenes.

"I had it in my hand here a minute ago!" he exclaims. "Perhaps you have left it in the garden?" asks my aunt. "How could I leave it in the garden? I don't want a paper in the garden. I want the paper in the train with me."

"You have not put it in your pocket?"

"Do you think I am standing here at five minutes to nine looking for it when I have it in my pocket? Do you think I'm a fool?"

Here somebody exclaims, "What's this?" and gives him a paper from somewhere.

He seizes it, and opens his bag to put it in. And then looking at it, he pauses with indignation.

"What's the matter?" my aunt asks.

"The day before yesterday's paper!" he answers, too hurt even to shout, throwing the paper down upon the table.

It is always the day before yesterday's; except on Tuesday; then it is Saturday's.

We find it for him at last. Sometimes he is sitting on it. And then he smiles ironically, and says:

"All the time, right in front of your noses!" ... He does not finish the sentence, he is proud of his self-control.

Then he goes to the hall, where it is the habit of my Aunt Maria to bring all the children to say good-bye to him.

My uncle never leaves the house without saying good-bye to every child.

One of them, of course, is missing, and when it is noticed all the other six run to find that child. Then the missing child comes by itself from somewhere quite near, always with a ready explanation for its absence; and at once runs after the others to explain to them that it is found. So, five minutes at least pass, and during this time my uncle finds his umbrella and loses his hat. Then, at last, when everybody is in the hall, the clock begins to strike nine. My uncle in his confusion kisses some of the children twice, passes by others, forgets whom he has kissed and whom he has not, and must begin all over again.

Then the eldest boy says that he was late for school the day before because all the clocks in the house were five minutes slow. My uncle in panic runs to the gate, where he discovers that he has with him neither his bag nor his umbrella. All the children that my aunt cannot stop run after him, two of them with the umbrella, the others with the bag. And when they return we discover on the hall table the most important thing he has forgotten, and think of what he will say about it when he comes home.

Sean Townes

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