official, a cloak-room keeper, who they told us had lately lost his
aunt, and who looked exceptionally dejected, I proposed to B. that
we should take this man into a quiet corner, and both of us show him
all our tickets at once--the whole twenty or twenty-four of them--
and let him take them in his hand and look at them for as long as he
liked. I wanted to comfort him.

B., however, advised against the suggestion. He said that even if
it did not turn the man's head (and it was more than probable that
it would), so much jealousy would be created against him among the
other railway people throughout Germany, that his life would be made
a misery to him.

So we bought and showed him a first-class return to the next station
but one; and it was quite pathetic to watch the poor fellow's face
brighten up at the sight, and to see the faint smile creep back to
the lips from which it had so long been absent.

But at times, one wishes that the German railway official would
control his passion for tickets--or, at least, keep it within due
bounds.

Even the most kindly-hearted man grows tired of showing his ticket
all day and night long, and the middle of a wearisome journey is not
the proper time for a man to come to the carriage-window and clamour
to see your "billet."

You are weary and sleepy. You do not know where your ticket is.
You are not quite sure that you have got a ticket; or if you ever
had one, somebody has taken it away from you. You have put it by