“Yah! There’s the trouble,” scowled Rice.
“The only game,” I answered, “is to refuse to wake up.”
“Fine!” cried the Chicago lad, “that’s the best scheme yet.”
I thought so too—until later.
We had slept two hours, perhaps, possibly three, when our dreams were disturbed by the thump of a ticket-punch on the window-sill and the unmistakable dulcet of a Eurasian:—
“Tickets, please, sahibs. Give me your tickets.”
We lay on our backs, imperturbable.
“Tickets, sahibs!” shrieked the Eurasian.
James was snoring lightly and peacefully; Rice, with long-drawn snarls, like the death-rattle of a war-horse, as if striving not merely to deceive the collector but to frighten him off.
“Tickets, I say, sahibs, tickets!”