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 Commons)—sixty and a half miles in sixty-eight minutes. Owing to some repairs to the main line at Stratford Bridge Dyke, we are unfortunately compelled to shut off steam and diverge on to a siding, thus losing some five or six minutes, but this delay is quickly repaired as we put on an extra spurt to Biggleswade and Arlesey. Now we leave Bedfordshire for the county of Herts, and run up the bank to Hitchin, the signals at the junction being soon perceptible. As we rush through the station we find that we have reduced by four minutes the time lost at Stratford Bridge, and have a record of seventy-three miles in eighty-six minutes. After a stiff climb of four miles to Stevenage and Knebworth (the historic home of the Lyttons), away we go across fairly level country, through two tunnels, arriving at Welwyn Station (eighty-three and a half miles) in one hour forty minutes. Having climbed the bank over Welwyn Viaduct, we accelerate our pace, and quickly reach Hatfield, where, but for the darkness, we could readily discern the regal mansion of Lord Salisbury and the church surmounting the hill. We rush through Hatfield Station with terrific speed, pass Potter's Bar, and enter the county of Middlesex. As we are nearing the end of our journey, the fireman levels the fire to keep it low down, no further coaling being necessary. From Potter's Bar to Wood Green, a distance of eight miles, is a steep down-gradient, and we seem to fly through the intervening stations and the tunnels at Enfield. When the lamps of Hornsey Station are passed, we have completed rather more than a hundred miles—time, one hour fifty-five minutes.

The distant glare of London's innumerable lights is now visible, and frequent whistling announces our speedy approach to the metropolis. "It's all over, sir," shouts Watson—an intimation that our journey is practically finished, and his responsibility over for this occasion. In Copenhagen Tunnel we slacken speed, the signals being against us; presently all is clear, off we go through our last tunnel, and the fireman, whose task is now at an end, sweeps the coal dust from the footplate. With steam shut off and the brake in action, oscillation gradually ceases, and we glide into the brightness of King's Cross Station, having accomplished the entire distance in two hours and three minutes.

Thus ended my memorable trip. With a friendly "good-night" to Watson and his mate, I step on to the platform and out into the busy streets, feeling somewhat dazed and fatigued, but otherwise none the worse for my night ride on the "Flying Scotchman."