To his horror he recollected that he had left both coat and waistcoat behind him in his cell, and with them his pocketbook, money, keys, watch, matches, pencil-case⁠—all that makes life worth living, all that distinguishes the many-pocketed animal, the lord of creation, from the inferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed productions that hop or trip about permissively, unequipped for the real contest.

In his misery he made one desperate effort to carry the thing off, and, with a return to his fine old manner⁠—a blend of the Squire and the College Don⁠—he said, “Look here! I find I’ve left my purse behind. Just give me that ticket, will you, and I’ll send the money on tomorrow? I’m well-known in these parts.”

The clerk stared at him and the rusty black bonnet a moment, and then laughed. “I should think you were pretty well known in these parts,” he said, “if you’ve tried this game on often. Here, stand away from the window, please, madam; you’re obstructing the other passengers!”