"At last, as he was turning his page, I said in my most dulcet tones: 'Oh, pray excuse my appropriating the entire foot-warmer. I don't know why there is only one, but I will share it with you with pleasure.' "'Thank you,' he said gruffly, 'I'm not cold.' "'Oh, aren't you!' I murmured inwardly, adding aloud with a severe wintry tone, 'Gentlemen of your age usually are.' "'Yes, but I'm not a gentleman of my age,' he growled, mistaking the imbecile statement for repartee. "'I beg your pardon,' said I. 'I was judging by appearances. Is that the _Saturday Slasher_ you have there?' "He shook himself impatiently. 'No, it is not.' "'I beg your pardon,' said I. 'I was again judging by appearances. May I ask what it is?' "'_Threepenny Bits!_' he jerked back. "'What's that?' I asked. 'I know _Broken Bits_.' "'This is a superior edition of _Broken Bits_ at the price indicated by the title. It contains the same matter, but is issued at a price adapted to the means of the moneyed and intellectual classes. No self-respecting person can be seen reading penny weeklies--it throws doubt not only on his income, but on his mental calibre. The idea of this first-class edition (so to speak) should make the fortune of the proprietor, and deservedly so. Of course, the thousand pound railway assurance scheme is likewise trebled, though this part of the paper does not attract me personally, for my next-of-kin is a hypocritical young rogue. But imagine the horror of being found dead with a penny weekly in one's pocket! You can't even explain it away.' "He had hardly finished the sentence before a terrible shock, as of a ton of dynamite exploding under the foot-warmer, lifted me into the air; the carriage collapsed like matchwood, and I had the feeling of being thrown into the next world. For a moment I recovered a gleam of consciousness, just enough to show me I was lying dying amid the _débris_, and that my companion lay, already dead, in a fragment of the compartment, _Threepenny Bits_ clenched in his lifeless hand.