Within a day or two the opinion changed. For holders of passes always used them at the same time, that is, when it was most inconvenient to the rest of the queue. For the chief joy of a privilege lies in the flaunting of it before the eyes of the less fortunate. There were low murmurs of resentment.
Two afternoons later I met Stone in the last stage of exasperation. After a stream of abuse, the “sad accidents of his tragedy” became clear.
It was a wet, windy afternoon, and Stone had been waiting in the “cheque” queue for over an hour. He was heartily sick of it, but had been particularly anxious to draw his money before roll-call, having booked the billiard-table for immediately afterwards. And it had really looked as though he would be just in time. Five more minutes, and he was fourth in the queue; a minute a man. It should have worked out all right.
Slowly the queue had moved forwards. Too slowly for Stone. There had been a delay of almost two minutes, because some ass had not been able to remember the amount of his cheque. Numerous sheets had to be turned over. It was “a bit thick.”
But at last the three men in front of him had been disposed of. With a minute to spare, he had just been about to walk into the office, when a voice had bawled, “Half a minute,” and a diminutive captain had rushed up panting.
“Just in time.”
“Afraid you won’t get in before roll-call,” Stone had said, sunning himself in his serenity.
“Oh, that’s all right. I’ve got a Priority Pass.”
“A what?”
“A Priority Pass.”