An idea in the nature of a political argument suddenly popped into Tommy’s head, and it was too much for him.  He was obliged to let it out.  To the winds with that impartiality which a tram company expects from its conductors!

“Ah!” he remarked, jerking his elbow in the direction of Mrs Clayton Vernon and pointedly addressing his three Federationist passengers, “she’s a lady, she is! She won’t travel with anybody, she won’t! She chooses her company—­and quite right too, I say!”

And then he started the car.  He felt himself richly avenged by this sally for the “Tommy” and the “your majesty” and the sneering laughter.

Paul Ford winked very visibly at his companions, but made no answering remark.  And Thomas Chadwick entered the interior of the car to collect fares.  In his hands this operation became a rite.  His gestures seemed to say, “No one ever appreciated the importance of the vocation of tram-conductor until I came.  We will do this business solemnly and meticulously.  Mind what money you give me, count your change, and don’t lose, destroy, or deface this indispensable ticket that I hand to you.  Do you hear the ting of my bell?  It is a sign of my high office.  I am fully authorized.”

When he had taken his toll he stood at the door of the car, which was now jolting and climbing past the loop-line railway station, and continued his address to the company about the aristocratic and exclusive excellences of his friend Mrs Clayton Vernon.  He proceeded to explain the demerits and wickedness of federation, and to descant on the absurdity of those who publicly wore the rosettes of the Federation party, thus branding themselves as imbeciles and knaves; in fact, his tongue was loosed.  Although he stooped to accept the wages of a tram-conductor, he was not going to sacrifice the great political right of absolutely free speech.

“If I wasn’t the most good-natured man on earth, Tommy Chadwick,” said Paul Ford, “I should write to the tram company to-night, and you’d get the boot to-morrow.”

“All I say is,” persisted the singular conductor—­“all I say is—­she’s a lady, she is—­a regular real lady!  She chooses her company—­and quite right too!  That I do say, and nobody’s going to stop my mouth.”  His manner was the least in the world heated.

“What’s that?” asked Paul Ford, with a sudden start, not inquiring what Thomas Chadwick’s mouth was, but pointing to an object which was lying on the seat in the corner which Mrs Clayton Vernon had too briefly occupied.

He rose and picked up the object, which had the glitter of gold.

“Give it here,” said Thomas Chadwick, commandingly.  “It’s none of your business to touch findings in my car;” and he snatched the object from Paul Ford’s hands.