As for us who sit in the railway train, we do not look at him much.  We are all either reading papers or talking.  Two old men, bearded and greasy-coated, tramps of a bygone era, sit opposite one another and neither read nor talk.  One of them is blear-eyed and coughs, and has an unclean moustache.  All his friend ever says to him is:  “Clean your nose,” making an impatient gesture.  A young man in a bowler hat and spectacles, who smokes a pipe in inward-drawn lips, discusses the Labour situation with some acquaintances.  “They would be all right,” he explains, “if it wasn’t for the Labour leaders.  You know what a Labour leader is.  He’s a chap that never did an honest day’s work in his life.  He finds it pays better to jaw than to work, and I don’t blame him.  After all, it’s human nature.  Every man’s out to do the best for himself, isn’t he?” “Your nose—­blow your nose,” mumbled the tramp across the carriage.  “Take Australia,” continues the young man; “they’ve had Labour Governments in Australia.  What good did they do for the working man?  Did they satisfy him?  Why, there were more strikes in Australia under the Labour Government than there ever had been before.”  “Did you hear that, Johnny?” I heard another voice saying.  “A tame rabbit was sold Sat’day in Guildford market for twelve-and-sixpence!” “How did they know it was a tame one?” “Ah, now you’re asking!” A man looked up from The Morning Post with interest in his face.  “Why,” he said, “is a tame rabbit considered to be better eating than a wild one?” It was explained to him that wild rabbits were often kept for a long time after they were killed, and were therefore regarded as more dangerous.  Otherwise, the tame rabbit had no point of superiority.  “What do you say, Johnny?” Johnny had a fat face and no eyelashes, and wore a muffler instead of a collar.  “I say, give me a wild one.”  The man with The Morning Post went on to talk about rabbits and the price at which he had sold them.  At intervals, during everything he said, Johnny kept nodding and saying, with a smile of relish:  “Give me a wild one!” He said it even when the talk had drifted altogether away from rabbits.  He went on repeating it to himself in lower tones, as though at last he had found a thought that suited him.  “Municipalisation means jobbery,” said the young man with the bowler hat; “look at the County Council tramways.”  “Give me a wild one,” said Johnny, in a dreamy whisper; “I say, give me a wild one.”  “Why, it stands to reason, if you have a friend, and you see a chance of shovin’ him into a job at the public expense, you’ll do it, won’t you?” said the young man, addressing the reader of The Morning Post, who merely cleared his throat nervously in answer.  “It’s human nature,” said the young man.  “Give me a wild one” whispered Johnny.  “I’m afraid there’s going to be trouble in Ireland,” the man with The Morning Post turned the subject.  The young man was ready for him.  “There