out of the train."

The speaker paused and I heard the clink of glass.

"Well?" said the other voice.

"So, before we could flatten him out, he skipped up and pulled the
communicator thing and stopped the train; consequently we ran into
Town five minutes behind time. There was the deuce of a buzz about
it."

"What's five minutes in this blissful land of lotus-eaters? Why, I've
known the Calais-Wipers express lose itself for half-a-day without a
murmur from anyone, unless the Brigadier had run out of bottled Bass."

"But, my dear fellow," the first voice expostulated, "this was the
great West of England non-stop Swallowtail; runs into Town three
minutes ahead of time every trip. Habitués of the line often turn an
honest penny by laying odds on its punctuality with people who are
strangers to the reputation of this flier."

"A pretty safe thing to bet on, eh?" said the other voice. Again there
was the faint clink of glass and then the voices drifted into other
topics, to which, having re-enveloped myself in my paper, I became
oblivious.

A few days later I was called away from London, with Mr. Westaby
Jones, to consult in a matter of business. Mr. Westaby Jones is a
member of the Stock Exchange and, amongst other trivial failings, he
possesses one which is not altogether unknown in his profession. He