"Is this where they collect tickets, father?" enquired Mrs. Welwyn, breaking off suddenly. Mr. Welwyn nodded, and his wife rather hurriedly plucked her daughter from her seat beside The Freak and transferred her to her own lap, to that damsel’s unfeigned dolour. "Sit on mother’s knee just now, dearie," urged Mrs. Welwyn--"just for a minute or two!" Miss Welwyn, who appeared to be a biddable infant, settled down without further objection. A moment later the train stopped and the carriage door was thrown open. "Tickets, please!" Mr. Welwyn and I sat next the door, and I accordingly submitted my ticket for inspection. It was approved and returned to me by the collector, an austere person with what Charles Surface once described as "a damned disinheriting countenance." "Change next stop," he remarked. "Yours, sir?" Mr. Welwyn handed him three tickets. The collector appeared to count them. Then his gloomy gaze fell upon the unconscious Miss Welwyn, who from the safe harbourage of her mother’s arms was endeavouring to administer to him what is technically known, I believe, as The Glad Eye. "Have you a ticket for that child, madam?" he enquired. "Too old to be carried." Mrs. Welwyn looked helplessly at her husband, who replied for her. "Yes, surely. Did n’t I give it to you, my man?" "No, sir," said the collector dryly; "you did not." Mr. Welwyn began to feel in his pockets. "That is uncommonly stupid of me," he said. "I must have it somewhere. I thought I put them all in one pocket." He pursued his researches further, and the collector waited grimly. I looked at Mrs. Welwyn. She was an honest woman, and a fleeting glance at her face informed me that the search for this particular ticket was to be of a purely academic description. "I must trouble you," began the man, "for--" "It must be somewhere!" persisted Mr. Welwyn, with unruffled cheerfulness. "Perhaps I dropped it on the floor." "Let _me_ look!" Next moment The Freak, who had been a silent spectator of the scene, dropped upon his knees and dived under the seat. The collector, obviously sceptical, fidgeted impatiently and stepped back on to the platform, as if to look for an inspector. I saw an appealing glance pass from Mrs. Welwyn to her husband. He smiled back airily, and I realised that probably this comedy had been played once or twice before. The collector reappeared. "The fare," he began briskly, "is--" "Here’s the ticket," announced a muffled voice from beneath the seat, and The Freak, crimson and dusty, emerged from the depths flourishing a green pasteboard slip. The collector took it from his hand and examined it carefully. "All right," he snapped. "Now your own, sir." The Freak dutifully complied. At the sight of his ticket the collector’s morose countenance lightened almost to the point of geniality. He was not to go empty away after all. "Great Northern ticket. Not available on this line," he announced.