Thundering North.

Peterborough, then Grantham, then Newark. The Flying Scotsman flew on steadily, thundering its way to the north, with Ben Glasgow silently pulling at his briar pipe and staring ahead.

Shortly after 1.30 we rumbled slowly through York, cleared the maze of points in the yards, and rolled out again on the main line.

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Twenty minutes later John Eltringham, the Yorkshireman, came forward from the train, passing through the narrow corridor that leads through the tender from the coaches, and emerging with a quiet smile on his face.

He produced a large bottle of cold tea, set it near the boiler to get hot, looked at the gauges above him, and silently took over the regulator from Ben Glasgow.

The relief fireman nudged Albert in the ribs and picked up a different shovel.