“I see. You’ll be going home soon. Return ticket?”
“No. I just wanted to see London. At least, there was a train going to London.”
“Ain’t lost your memory, have you, mate?”
“No,” said René. “No. I’ve lost interest in it, that’s all.”
“Money? Got any money?”
René thrust his hand into his pocket and produced three pounds and a few shillings.
“And no friends,” said the porter to himself. “Well, you are a corker, and no mistake! Set on going to Putney, are you?” René nodded. “Well, if you want a friend, come to me.” And he wrote down an address in Kentish Town which René pocketed without looking at it.
“But if I was you,” said the little man, “I should go back home, I should, really. See your friends and go back home. I had a brother once who got crossed in love. Took it something crool, he did, and walked out of the house one day after breakfast and went to Canada. We sent him the money to come home, and now he’s doing well in the drysalting. Good-by, mate, and good luck.”
He held out a grimy paw, and René clasped it warmly. It was, he felt, a good beginning.