“How far are we justified in experimenting with our fellow-creatures, I wonder?”
CHAPTER XII
It was a day of expectancy—and promise—of blackthorn breaking into snowy showers, and of meadows richly green, blue sky and white cloud—and a sense of racing, headlong life joyously tremulous over the earth.
The boys had met at Paddington Station, Sam Sartin by no means abashed at his own appearance in an old suit of Christopher’s, and wearing, in deference to his friend’s outspoken wishes, a decorous dark-blue tie and unobtrusive shirt. He looked what he was—a good, solid, respectable working lad out for a holiday. Excitement, if he felt it, was well suppressed, surprise at the new world of luxury—they travelled down first—was equally carefully concealed. The code of manners in which he was reared was stringent in this particular.
Christopher, on the contrary, was in high spirits. Sam had watched him come down the platform, out of the corner of his eye, with a queer sense of proud possession. He would have liked to proclaim to the world that the young master there, who walked like a prince, was his own particular pal. Yet he pretended not to see him till Christopher clapped him on the shoulder with a warm greeting.
“I’ve got the tickets. Come on,” said the giver of the treat. “I say, what a day, Sammie—if it’s good in London what will it be in the country?”
“Cold, I shouldn’t wonder. What’s the matter with London?” said the cockney sarcastically.
“Old Bricks and Mortar,” retorted Christopher gaily. “You’ll know what’s the matter with it when you come back. It’s too jolly small.” 145