If anything could smell nastier than John's berth in Nine Elms it is
Fenchurch Street Station. And I think it is worse in this way; John's
berth smelt horrible, but it was warm and weather-tight. You never
swallow a drop of pure air in Fenchurch Street Station, and yet you
cannot find a corner in which you can get out of the draughts.
With one gale blowing on my right from an open door, and another gale
blowing on my left down some steps, and nasty smells blowing from
every point of the compass, I stood at a dirty little hole in a dirty
wooden wall and took our tickets. I had to stand on tiptoe to make the
young man see me.
"What is the cheapest kind of tickets you have, if you please?" I
inquired, with the canvas bag in my hand.
"Third class," said the young man, staring very hard at me, which I
thought rather rude. "Except working men's tickets, and they're not
for this train."
"Two third-class tickets for Victoria Dock, then, if you please," said
I.
"Single or return?" said he.
"I beg your pardon?" I said, for I was puzzled.
"Are you coming back to-day?" he inquired.
"Oh dear, no!" said I, for some of the captain's voyages had lasted
for years; but the question made me anxious, as I knew nothing of
railway rules, and I added, "Does it matter?"
"Not by no means," replied the young man smartly, and he began to
whistle, but stopped himself to ask, "Custom House or Tidal Basin?"
I had no alternative but to repeat "I _beg_ your pardon?"
He put his face right through the hole and looked at me.
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