"Tickets, sir!" said he.
"I am for Clayborough," I replied, holding out the tiny pink card.
He took it; glanced at it by the light of his little lantern; gave it
back; looked, as I fancied, somewhat sharply at my fellow-traveller,
and disappeared.
"He did not ask for yours," I said with some surprise.
"They never do," replied Mr. Dwerrihouse. "They all know me; and, of
course, I travel free."
"Blackwater! Blackwater!" cried the porter, running along the platform
beside us, as we glided into the station.
Mr. Dwerrihouse pulled out his deed-box, put his travelling-cap in his
pocket, resumed his hat, took down his umbrella, and prepared to be
gone.
"Many thanks, Mr. Langford, for your society," he said, with
old-fashioned courtesy. "I wish you a good evening."
"Good evening," I replied, putting out my hand.
But he either did not see it, or did not choose to see it, and, slightly
lifting his hat, stepped out upon the platform. Having done this, he
moved slowly away, and mingled with the departing crowd.
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