“Portsmouth—third—two—single.”
“That’s the way to go it, lobster!” remarked a shabby man, next in the line behind Miles.
The grave sergeant paid no more regard to this remark than if it had been the squeak of a mouse.
“Now, then, sir, your carridge stops the way. ’Eave a’ead. Shall I ’elp you?” said the shabby man.
Thus admonished, Miles, scarce knowing what he said, repeated the sergeant’s words—
“Portsmouth—third—two—single.”
“Vy, you ain’t agoin’ to pay for me, are you?” exclaimed the shabby man in smiling surprise.
“Oh! beg pardon. I mean one,” said Miles to the clerk, quickly.
The clerk retracted the second ticket with stolid indifference, and Miles, hastening to the platform, sat down on a seat, deeply and uncomfortably impressed with the fact that he possessed little or no money! This unsatisfactory state of things had suddenly burst upon him while in the act of paying for his ticket. He now made a careful examination of his purse, and found its contents to be exactly seven shillings and sixpence, besides a few coppers in his trousers-pocket.
Again indecision assailed him. Should he return? It was not too late. “Yes,” said Conscience, with emphasis. “No,” said Shame. False pride echoed the word, and Self-will re-echoed it. Still our hero hesitated, and there is no saying what the upshot might have been if the bell had not rung at the moment, and, “Now, then, take your seats!” put an end to the controversy.