We are at Finsbury Park now, and tickets are being collected. This is the nearest station to my home, and here I intend to leave the train. My companion follows me up the platform, and calls the guard to take my name and address. Being under the scrutiny of the other passengers, who evidently think I have got into trouble for card-sharping, and having made up my mind to pay the penalty, I lose no time in giving my card.
At home I am received with open arms, and I am hurried into the dining-room by my boys to inspect a device over the sideboard for my especial benefit—‘Welcome’ in blue letters on a white ground. My wife is full of inquiries after all our friends in Edinburgh, and what sort of a journey I have had.
Having informed her that individually and collectively all our friends are as well as could be expected, considering the wintry weather they have had, and that all were as kind and hospitable as ever, I briefly tell her of my smoking adventure.
‘And who was your companion?’ asks my wife.
‘How should I know?’
‘Why, you have his card.’
‘To be sure; I quite forgot that,’ say I, producing my card-case. I search it through carefully, but no card, other than my own, can I find.
‘I know I put it in here. Why, bless me! I must have given it to the guard instead of my own. How odd!’
I have almost dismissed the adventure from my mind, when a few days later my wife, in skimming over the paper at the breakfast-table, breaks out into a merry laugh. What on earth can she find so amusing in any other than the ‘Agony’ column? which I can see is not the portion under perusal. It is the police reports, and she hands me the paper, pointing out the place for my attention.