“Certainly,” admitted Rouse, “it is a trifle bent. But why? Because now nobody knows whether it is a ticket to Harley or the Federated Malay States. Will they, however, suppose that you would be such an ass as to buy a ticket to Ealing when you intended proceeding to Harley? I think not. You have to give up your ticket at the other end, and you’ll give it up, that’s all. It will be in pieces, but there’s no law against that. The warden at the gate will say: ‘Hi, here you! What’s this?’ and you’ll say: ‘That, sir, is my ticket,’ and you’ll pour it generously into his open hands. He’ll never know. He’ll think it’s a practical joke, scowl at you, and pass you through with the toe of his boot.”
There was an awed silence. Rouse was well satisfied with the effect of his words. Suddenly however there spoke up Terence Nicholson from his corner. It was the first time that he had been able to get a word in and he spoke modestly.
“Yes,” said he, “that’s all very well; only the ticket to Harley is green and his ticket to Ealing’s red. That’s all.”
There came a silence of several moments, whilst those present considered this point with new interest, and at last Terence shook his head regretfully.
“There’s always something wrong with your schemes,” said he. “You don’t grow any older. You don’t improve a bit.”
And thereupon there came a rush of air and a roar and the train had entered a tunnel. The light spluttered hopefully for a moment and then died a natural death. They were plunged into darkness.
At last the melancholy voice of Rouse was again uplifted in a sonorous protest that came heavily through the darkness as if in pleading:
“Well, you’re always very clever at picking holes,” said he. “In common with the rest of Harley’s populace you cherish that silly notion that except for a certain knack in playing footer I am one of the most useless and incapable creatures ever built. Let me hear you make a suggestion, my lad.”
“Well, if you ask me,” said Terence, “I should say, let him tell the truth.”
Rouse cleared his throat.