his Society for the Abolition of Boredom in Public Conveyances is an
excellent thing, don't you?"

"Pontresina to St. Ives!"

Breathlessly we changed places; her black hat was a little crooked, but she
only laughed.

"I've lost my knitting, too," she said, "but I don't mind. This exercise
keeps one so warm these cold days."

The game was in wild progress; the car rocked and jolted and the
conductress shouted the names.

"General Post!" she called. "Those inside change places with those
outside."

That was the most breathlessly exciting moment of the whole game. There was
a solid struggling mass of humanity on the tram staircase. Those without
were pushing frantically to come down; we were shoving to get up.

The lady called St. Ives was thumping my shoulders.

"Climb up the railing," she said.

Somehow I did it, and leaned down to catch her hands and drag her upwards.
We launched ourselves breathlessly on to the furthest seat.

Stout old Macclesfield was the next. He had lost his hat and his white hair
was ruffled.

"I'm here," he said. "Macclesfield for ever!"

The flapper had scrambled up the front staircase against the rules. She
cast herself down beside Macclesfield.

"Here I am, old dear," she exclaimed. "I left York simply _jammed_ in the
wedge. Oh, isn't it fun? I never laughed so much. We never _can_ be serious
with each other after this, can we?"

St. Ives nodded.

"I'll never forget Pontresina climbing the rail," she said. "I used to
think him so haughty; now--"

"Albemarle Road--don't you want Albemarle Road?" the conductress was asking
me. She spoke very loudly.

"Pontresina--I'm Pontresina," I answered.

"This is Albemarle Road. If you're going on it'll be another penny," she
insisted.

I rose in bewilderment.

St. Ives was looking at me while she knitted. I raised my hat to her and
smiled. We had been such good friends all the evening--how could I ever
forget it? But she did not smile; she only stared. She seemed to think I
was mad. Macclesfield was reading his _Star_ just as if he had never hurled
himself on to the top of the 'bus. The flapper was squinting at herself in
a little pocket-mirror; she looked contemptuously at me as I passed. Old
York was half asleep. One would think they had never been rushing about in
that frantic General Post. And we were all inside the car again.

It _was_ odd!

* * * * *

[Illustration: "THE BLOKE WOT PAINTED