"The pleasure is mutual, sir," he replied, quietly, speaking with a slight Scotch accent; and then, with his usual "Com licença," reached over for the rest of the tickets.
The other fellows, season-ticket holders on that line, burst out laughing, and before I had time to realise the exact size of fool I'd made of myself, the man had opened the door, and was making his way along the foot-board to the next carriage. I jumped to the window and looked after him, just in time to catch a slight smile on his wooden face as he disappeared into the compartment.
"Well, I'm blessed!" I remarked to the others. "The fellow understands English."
"Yes. Most Scotchmen do, you know," was the reply; and I felt smaller than ever.
"Who is he?" I asked.
"Don't know. Calls himself Judson, but probably was christened something else. He has been on the Lisbon-Cintra line for the last ten years, and that's pretty nearly all that is known about him. Half a score of fellows have tried at different times to get him to talk, but he sees through it, and closes up like an oyster."
"Where does he live?" I asked; for this sounded interesting.
"You'll have to get him to tell you himself; nobody else knows. Bet you twenty mil you don't draw him."
"Done!" said I, and booked the bet.
Now, the more I allowed my thoughts to dwell on the square, determined-looking features of the man, the more angry I grew with myself because I could not put a name to the face. The fellow haunted me the whole morning, and as the dilatoriness of the Portuguese Government officials, with whom I was trying to negotiate a sugar concession, gave me plenty of time for reflection, by the time I had become thoroughly tired of hanging round the Cortes, and had made up my mind to having to wait once more for the interminable Portuguese "to-morrow," I was also quite ready for another interview with "Judson." I set off, therefore, for the station, and took my ticket to Cintra.