ASKING FOR IT.
The big clock in the station pointed three minutes to the hour, and my train went at one minute past, so I didn't waste words with the man in the booking-office.
"Third r'turn, Wat'loo."
Nothing happened. He was there all right, but he neither spoke nor made any attempt to give me my ticket; he merely looked.
"Third r'turn, Wat'loo," I repeated, and again, inserting my face as far as possible into the window, very firmly, distinctly and offensively. "Third re-turn, Wat-er-loo."
Then he spoke, slowly. "Sorry, Sir, I can't do it. You have hit on the one station to which we don't issue tickets. Any other one I could manage for you, but——"
"Look here," I said sternly, "you don't seem to know your business. If you haven't got a printed ticket, can't you make one out on paper? Hurry up, man; my train leaves in a minute or two."
"Yes," he said more slowly than ever, "I could do that—we have blank forms for that purpose; but all the same I won't do it."
"Oh, you won't? And why?"
"Well, I don't know what the fare is. I——"