ing in this world that I hate, it's mean folks,"
continued Mrs. Whippleton, glancing maliciously across the aisle at Mr.
Collingsby. "That man's meaner'n gravel-stone chowder."

The old lady dropped her voice a little, as though she meant to be
confidential on this point. I was rather sorry to have the character of
my presumed uncle damaged in this manner, but I was not sufficiently
acquainted with him to attempt a defence.

"It was meaner'n dirt for him to set down side of me, and not even say
how d'ye do! I hate mean folks. I ain't mean myself. There ain't a mean
bone in my body--no, there ain't, if I do say it, that oughtn't to say
it."

"Probably the gentleman did not recognize you," I suggested again.

"He didn't want to re-cog-nize me," she persisted, throwing a bitter
emphasis on the middle of the word. "He didn't even look at me."

I wanted to ask her some questions about the Collingsby family; but I
did not like to do so while one of its members was so near me, for I
fancied that, deeply as he was absorbed in the newspaper, he heard
every word that was said by the garrulous old lady, who appeared to
have been talking more for his benefit than mine in some of her
remarks. But the appearance of the conductor at the forward end of the
car, taking up the tickets, changed the current of her thoughts, and
she commenced a violent demonstration upon her bag, her pocket, and her
bundles, in search of her ticket.

Most of the passengers produced their tickets, conscious, perhaps, how
nervous it makes the "gentlemanly conductor" when compelled to wait for
excited men or women to search through all their pockets, and all their
portable effects, for the evidence that they had paid their fare. I
noticed that Mr. Collingsby continued to gaze unmoved at the columns of
his newspaper, and when the conductor reached him, he slowly drew off
his kid glove, and deliberately took from his pocket-book the ticket,
which his dignity did not permit him to have ready before.

"Tickets, if you please," said the conductor, as he politely bowed to
Mr. Collingsby, and turned to the less important people in the car.

I gave up mine, and received a check; but Mrs. Whippleton was still
ransacking her bags and parcels.

"As I live and breathe, I've lost my ticket, or else somebody's stole
it!" exclaimed the old lady, glancing again towards Mr. Collingsby, who
must have been, in her estimation, the root of all evil and all
mischief.

"