identical corner seat which Harrison had long regarded as his own
personal property. And to make matters worse, there was no other vacant
seat in the compartment. Harrison was about to protest, when the guard
blew his whistle. There was nothing for it but to jump in and argue the
matter out _en route_. Harrison jumped in, to be greeted instantly
by a chorus of nine male voices. 'Outside there! No room! Turn him
out!' said the chorus. Then the chorus broke up into its component
parts, and began to address him one by one.

'You rotter, Harrison,' said Babington, of Dacre's, 'what do you come
barging in here for? Can't you see we're five aside already?'

'Hope you've brought a sardine-opener with you, old chap,' said
Barrett, the peerless pride of Philpott's, ''cos we shall jolly well
need one when we get to the good old Junct-i-on. Get up into the rack,
Harrison, you're stopping the ventilation.'

The youth who had commandeered Harrison's seat so neatly took another
unpardonable liberty at this point. He grinned. Not the timid,
deprecating smile of one who wishes to ingratiate himself with
strangers, but a good, six-inch grin right across his face. Harrison
turned on him savagely.

'Look here,' he said, 'just you get out of that. What do you mean by
bagging my seat?'

'Are you a director of this line?' enquired the youth politely. Roars
of applause from the interested audience. Harrison began to feel hot
and uncomfortable.