"It's 'ated worse on earth," replied the Optimist, eyeing him speculatively.
The Philosopher spoke. "Why don't you buy a penny packet of fags if you want 'em? I see a Mother's Darling runnin' round jes' now wiv a right pritty lil tray. I wouldn't want anyone's fags 'oo didn't want me to 'ave 'em."
"You correck that," commanded the Optimist threateningly. "I tell you it's a slap-up genuine affydavid that stands in my way. 'Ave you ever known me refuse a pal me own wipe—alway' s'posin' 'e was in the kind o' trouble wot needed a wipe?"
Apparently they hadn't, for the Philosopher prodded him gently in the belt with the toe of his boot by way of stemming his rising indignation, and the Pessimist hung unresentfully out of the window.
"This way, sonny," he yelled, on sighting the said Mother's Darling. "'Urry your twinklin' tootsies!"
But the cigarette boy did not hear.
"Try 'im with 'Cuthbert'," advised the Optimist sympathetically, "or Rodney. Rodney is a nice name," he mused. "I once 'ad a gawd-child named Rodney. It died o' croup."
"O blast the bloomin' train!" (in effect) exclaimed the Pessimist impatiently as the engine showed signs of restlessness. "'Ere, you!"
But the boy sighted him too late as, with a shrill warning, the engine lurched forward and the long line of carriages rattled after it, protesting, out of the station.
The Pessimist flung himself backwards with an unprintable expression. His nerves were obviously needing a Woodbine.