“No,” confessed the other. “Now that I come to look with my other eye I must admit that I do not see it so clearly myself. Still there might have been. It is a pretty picture to conjure up—your father absolutely running himself to a standstill to get back his ticket to Ealing.” After this there was silence for a little while. The bright-eyed youth resumed his seat and appeared to be thinking things over. He threw his bowler on to the rack and passed a hand thoughtfully over his hair. At last he leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, and faced Arthur. Then he inclined his head sideways towards his fair-haired comrade. “That robust-looking fellow over there is known as Terence Nicholson,” said he, weighing his words. “He has been three years in the Harley Cricket Eleven, and now he’s in the Rugger side, so be careful what you say. His brother’s called ‘Old Nick,’ and he’s a master at school. Very likely you’ll see him walking along the footboards on his hands if you look outside. My own name,” he paused, in order to give added emphasis to the noble word, “is Rouse.” He did not care to introduce himself as the probable captain of Rugby football during the coming term, for Rouse was not conceited about the things that he _could_ do. Oddly enough he was only conceited about the things that he could not. “A beak called Mould,” he announced, “once told me when I was construing Latin that I had a very inventive brain.” He tapped his forehead significantly. “He was entirely correct. You see in me a man who thinks for exercise rather than for profit, and it will comfort you to know that I have already devised a way of escape for you in your astounding dilemma. I ask myself: ‘Now how is this poor misguided creature ever going to pass through the iron barriers of Harley with only a silly little ticket to Ealing in his hand?’ And the answer is this: ‘I will ask him to give that ticket to me.’” The fat boy reached out a trembling hand and gave over his ticket somewhat fearfully. Rouse took it and solemnly tore it into a hundred pieces. The fat boy screamed. “Oh, you’ve spoilt it!” “Certainly,” admitted Rouse, “it is a trifle bent. But why? Because now nobody knows whether it is a ticket to Harley or the Federated Malay States. Will they, however, suppose that you would be such an ass as to buy a ticket to Ealing when you intended proceeding to Harley? I think not. You have to give up your ticket at the other end, and you’ll give it up, that’s all. It will be in pieces, but there’s no law against that. The warden at the gate will say: ‘Hi, here you! What’s this?’ and you’ll say: ‘That, sir, is my ticket,’ and you’ll pour it generously into his open hands. He’ll never know. He’ll think it’s a practical joke, scowl at you, and pass you through with the toe of his boot.”