As they went their way, with the whole of the conversation furnished entirely by one only of the parties to it, Mr. Dodson produced an elaborate silver case.
“Smoke?” he said.
“Oh n-n-no,” said the boy, startled in much the same way as he would have been had he been asked whether he committed murders.
“Pity,” said Mr. Dodson, as he selected a cigarette from the silver case with the unmistakable air of the connoisseur. “Ought to. Great thing for the nerves. Though perhaps you are not troubled with ’em. I shouldn’t say myself that you lived at very high pressure.”
At the end of Fleet Street master and pupil parted company.
“Ta ta, old boy,” said Mr. Dodson, with a genial wave of the hand. “I go round the corner to the station. Nice time for the 7.50 to Peckham. That’s your ’bus—the green one. Ta ta; one of these days we will do a music-hall together.”
Mr. Dodson stood to watch the frail figure enter the green ’bus.
“Absolutely the rummest kid I ever struck,” said he. “Fancy a thing like that able to read Homer in the original! Well, I will say this—he don’t put on side about it like most chaps would.”
With this reflection the philosopher turned the corner, immediately to engage in a war of words, in which he did not come off second best, with the driver of a “growler,” who nearly ran over him as he stepped somewhat unwarily off the pavement.