“Well, I must be getting along,” said I. “Cheero, old son.”
“I’ll come with you to the station,” said he.
I shook my head. “No, please don’t bother.—Don’t forget to write.”
“Rather not.—Good luck, old man.”
“Thanks.”
We went down to his front door. I put on my bandolier and picked up my haversack.
“Well—so long.”
We shook hands.
“God bless you.”