There was an awed silence. Rouse was well satisfied with the effect of his words. Suddenly however there spoke up Terence Nicholson from his corner. It was the first time that he had been able to get a word in and he spoke modestly. “Yes,” said he, “that’s all very well; only the ticket to Harley is green and his ticket to Ealing’s red. That’s all.” There came a silence of several moments, whilst those present considered this point with new interest, and at last Terence shook his head regretfully. “There’s always something wrong with your schemes,” said he. “You don’t grow any older. You don’t improve a bit.” And thereupon there came a rush of air and a roar and the train had entered a tunnel. The light spluttered hopefully for a moment and then died a natural death. They were plunged into darkness. At last the melancholy voice of Rouse was again uplifted in a sonorous protest that came heavily through the darkness as if in pleading: “Well, you’re always very clever at picking holes,” said he. “In common with the rest of Harley’s populace you cherish that silly notion that except for a certain knack in playing footer I am one of the most useless and incapable creatures ever built. Let me hear you make a suggestion, my lad.” “Well, if you ask me,” said Terence, “I should say, let him tell the truth.” Rouse cleared his throat. “Well, I think you may be right. It’ll be difficult for anyone to believe _that_ poor boy capable of practising deceit. In fact one may say that he looks strongly like a boy who could be depended upon to forget his ticket.” The train came suddenly into daylight again and Rouse stopped abruptly. The fat boy was weeping. Rouse stared at him for a moment, then looked askance at Terence, and finally he turned a sternly prefectorial eye upon the boy in the corner who had hitherto somewhat escaped his notice. The boy looked back at him a little uncertainly with a half smile. He was not at all sure whether it was good form to laugh at a boy who was crying. Rouse gave him no hint. He just looked: and presently the other blinked at him apologetically. Actually Rouse was deciding, as he afterwards told Terence, what a peculiarly good-looking kid he was. “What’s your name?” said he at last. “Carr,” said the boy in the corner. “And which house are you going to?” “Mr Morley’s, I think.” “Over that house,” said Rouse, “I weave my spell. Also Friend Nicholson there. We were in that house when an arch-idiot named Mould ruled over our form, and at one time I must confess we appeared to be sinking. Yet, as we came up for the third time, so to speak, he was removed, and we survived. You’ll find Morley all right.” He turned to Arthur a little awkwardly. “Don’t answer if you’d rather not,” said he courteously, “but to which house are you being admitted?” The fat boy did not raise his head. He simply continued to weep, and at last there broke from his lips these sad words: “I want my t-t-ticket.”