We were all up at the station to see him off. It was rather a long wait. The Giraffe edged me up to the other end of the platform.
He seemed overcome.
“There’s—there’s some terrible good-hearted fellers in this world,” he said. “You mustn’t forgit ’em, Harry, when you make a big name writin’. I’m—well, I’m blessed if I don’t feel as if I was jist goin’ to blubber!”
I was glad he didn’t. The Giraffe blubberin’ would have been a spectacle. I steered him back to his friends.
“Ain’t you going to kiss me, Bob?” said the Great Western’s big, handsome barmaid, as the bell rang.
“Well, I don’t mind kissin’ you, Alice,” he said, wiping his mouth. “But I’m goin’ to be married, yer know.” And he kissed her fair on the mouth.
“There’s nothin’ like gettin’ into practice,” he said, grinning round.
We thought he was improving wonderfully; but at the last moment something troubled him.
“Look here, you chaps,” he said, hesitatingly, with his hand in his pocket, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all this stuff. There’s that there poor washerwoman that scalded her legs liftin’ the boiler of clothes off the fire——”
We shoved him into the carriage. He hung—about half of him—out the window, wildly waving his hat, till the train disappeared in the scrub.