Ten persons, it seemed, were expected to find places here.
"But we have first-class tickets," protested the lady, producing a bit of yellow pasteboard in proof of her assertion.
The guard glanced at it with as little interest as he would have bestowed on a scarab from the tomb of the Pharaohs.

Shrugging his shoulders, he merely indicated, with a wave of his hand, places where the three passengers might, perhaps, find seats,--one in this corner, a second yonder, and, if its owner would kindly transfer a greasy bundle to his lap, a third over there.
This arrangement, however, was not at all to the liking of either the ladies or their escort.

The latter was altogether disinclined to accept a seat between two fat cattle-dealers, being of no meagre dimensions himself.
"We'll see about this!" he exclaimed, and left the compartment in quest of the station-master.
That dignitary was promenading the platform in military uniform, his hands behind his back.

The complainant began to explain the situation to him and to demand that consideration to which his first-class ticket entitled him.

But the _illustrissimo_ merely opened his eyes and surveyed the gentleman in silence, much as a cuttlefish might have done if similarly addressed.
"_Partenza-a-a!_" shouted the guards, in warning.
The indignant gentleman hurried back to his compartment, only to find that, in his absence, three additional passengers had been squeezed into the crowded quarters, so that he himself now raised the total to thirteen,--a decidedly unlucky number.