No one spoke for a minute. The story of the fraudulent traveller who secured £200 in damages was an affecting one. At length the cook broke the silence.
“The young gentleman here,” he said, “has his ticket right enough surely.”
“He may have,” said the ticket-collector.
“I have,” said Mannix, fumbling in his pocket “Here it is.”
“I’m obliged to you,” said the ticket-collector. “It was it I wanted to see.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me for it?” said Mannix.
“He wouldn’t do the like,” said the attendant, “and you with maybe a broken leg.”
“I would not,” said the ticket-collector. “It would be a queer thing for me to be bothering you about a ticket, and me just after tying a bit of cord round as nasty a leg as ever I seen.”
“But when you wanted to see the ticket—” said Mannix.
“I drew down the subject of tickets,” said the collector, “the way you’d offer me a look at yours, if so be you had one, but as for asking you for it and you in pain, it’s what I wouldn’t do.”