"All right, little 'un! Keep wot yer sayin' till Sunday. Yer sermon's sending me to sleep. Forcing taxation on the winks of the 'ungry Englishman will raise the country to revolt. Tommy rot! Here endeth the first lesson, thank goodness!"
The soliloquising official rolls off his seat chuckling along the Gallery. Envelopes are handed to him by the reporters. He rolls back to the door, opens it, gives the copy to the messengers waiting for it, and rolls back once more into his seat. In doing so he spies me.
I feel smaller.
"Here, I say, what are you?"
"Punch."
"Where's ticket?"
"Left at home."
"H'm! Don't forget it again."
"Certainly not."
I say nothing more, as I am too interested in his running commentary of the proceedings. A grunt. Shake down: