“And when do you start?” asked Strachan, a great deal too much interested to listen to Kavanagh’s nonsense.
“On Wednesday,” replied Harry, “that is why I cannot stop to-morrow to benefit by your hospitality. I must go in the morning pretty early.”
“I’m off to Berber early in the morning,
I’m off to Berber, a little while to stay,”
chanted the incorrigible Kavanagh, getting on to his feet. “Catchee Dairy, or no catchee Dairy, Forsyth has got to see the old town of Farnham, and walk home by road, and get there comfortably for dinner. So come on. I am sure Forsyth must want to rest his tongue a bit and give his eyes a turn.”
They left the park, and went down into the town by the steps beneath the palace; and so through the broad street with the restored houses, the bank and others, the inhabitants of which ought to wear coifs and pinners, knickerbockers and doublets, and where tall black hats should be unknown; then into the main street, past the Workhouse, which has a letter-box soliciting books and newspapers for the amusement of the paupers, and so back to camp.
Each of the three recalled that Sunday walk often and often in after years, with a pleasure which those who have formed school friendships, and met those they had “conned” with after several, yet not too many, years’ absence, will understand. They talked no more of Forsyth’s adventurous journey, or the imminent examination lowering over Strachan and Kavanagh. No, the future was banished from their thoughts, which were full of the past. Their talk, indeed, on the way home, would have been a terrible infliction upon an outsider, had one been of the company.
“I say, do you remember Baum major?”
“Rather.”
“Don’t you remember when he thought he was sent up for good, and he wasn’t, and his face when he found out that old Williams had smelt his jacket of tobacco smoke?”
“I remember!”