“I teclare to cootness, young man, I can’t, and I won’t. I shall have no money to come pack.”
“Can’t help that,” said the collector, civilly enough. “I must do my duty, ma’am.”
“How much is it?” said Richard.
“From Bristol, third-class, sir, eight and tenpence.”
“Look you, young man, I shall pe ruined,” cried the old woman, tearfully.
“I’ll pay it,” said Richard, thrusting his hand into his pocket.
“You’re a tear, coot poy, pless you,” cried the old lady; and to the amusement of all on the platform, she went on tiptoe, reached up to Richard, and gave him a sounding kiss. “Pless you for it. Coot teeds are never thrown away.”
“I hope you are a witch, Mother Hubbard,” said Pratt, laughing. “Here’s your bundle. Don’t forget to do him a good turn.”
Richard took out the money, and the collector was about to write a receipt, when it suddenly occurred to the young man to open the umbrella, which he did with some difficulty, and the missing ticket fell out.
“There,” cried the old lady, joyfully, “I knew I put it somewhere to pe safe. Thank you, young man, and pless you all the same; for, look you, it was as coot a teed as if you had tone it.”