At this precise juncture of affairs a shrill whistle was heard ascending the stairway, growing momentarily louder and louder till it became earsplitting in intensity as it arrived on landing No. 6. The author of it pulled open the door and the whistle tailed off into a faint “phew” at sight of the embarrassed group. The new-comer was a thin-faced lad with light sandy 110 hair cropped close to his square head. He had light, undetermined eyes that were keen and lively. Christopher had beaten him in the matter of size, but there were latent possibilities in his ill-developed form.
Christopher sprang up and rushed forward, then suddenly stopped.
“Ullo, mother, didn’t know as ’ow you ’ad swell company this arternoon. I’d ’ave put on my best suit and topper,” he grinned affably as he deposited on the floor a big basket he carried.
“Oh, I say, Sam—don’t you know me either?” began poor Christopher.
He wheeled round, stared hard, and a broad smile of recognition spread over his face.
“Why, if it ain’t Jim,” he cried and seized his hand with a fervour that set Christopher aglowing and strangely enough set him free from the clinging shadow of his lost identity. This was tangible flesh and blood and of the real authentic present.
“Well, I’m blowed,” ejaculated Sam, stepping back to look at his erstwhile companion, “to think of you turning up again such a toff. No need to ask what sort of luck came your way. My. Ain’t ’e a swell, just.”
But unlike the women, he was unabashed by externals. He demanded “tea” of his mother that very moment, “cos ’e ’adn’t no time for dinner and ’is bloke ’ad sent ’im round to get a bit o’ somethink now,” at a slack hour.
“Greengrocer business, Clare Street,” he explained. “Seven shillings a week. Not a bad old cove. What d’yer say about yourself?”
He had the whole history out of Christopher in five minutes.