The
best and simplest plan would be for everybody to ask at the booking-office
for a half-fare, stating boldly that his or her age was exactly eleven
years and eleven months. It might not sound very convincing, of course,
even if you had a red-and-black cricket-cap on the back of your head and
covered your beard or what not with one hand; but a constant succession of
people all demanding the same thing would most certainly cause the
booking-clerk to give way. It might occur to him besides that, since so
many people insisted on giving their wrong ages for the pleasure of
fighting in war-time, they had a perfect right to do the same for the
pleasure of travelling in peace-time; and in the case of the women his
reputation for gallantry would be imperilled if he had the impudence to
doubt their word.
But would everybody be prepared to take up this strong and reasonable line?
I doubt it, and we must turn to the consideration of other economical
devices.
One plan which I do not honestly recommend is travelling under the seats of
the railway compartment, like _Paul Bultitude_ in _Vice Versa_. I say this
partly because the accommodation under the seats is not all that it ought
to be, and even where there is no heating apparatus a tight fit for large
families, and partly because you have to face the possibility that your
tickets may be demanded on the platform at the other end.
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