Lover or Friend

by Rosa Nouchette Carey

'So I do; but one may have business there sometimes,' returned Michael, linking his arm in Cyril's; for the two had grown fast friends, in spite of the disparity in their ages. 'I suppose it would be inquisitive on my part to ask what brings you here at this time in the afternoon?'

'Not at all. I have only been to my tailor's,' replied Cyril, smiling. 'I am not a swell like you, and City prices suit my pocket better than West-End ones. I was feeling rather dilapidated, so, as Unwin dismissed me early this afternoon, I thought I would attend to my outer man.'

'You would have been wiser to have run down to Teddington and had a pull up the river. You look as though you want fresh air, Blake. I don't know about your outer man, as you call it; but I must say you look uncommonly seedy.'

'Do I? Oh, I am all right,' he added hastily. 'I have not been used to spend a summer in town. How did you get on in Worth Wales, Burnett? I was never there, but I hear the scenery is beautiful.'

'So it is. You should see some of Jack Cooper's sketches; they would give an idea of the place;' and Michael launched into an enthusiastic description of a thunderstorm he had witnessed under Snowdon. 'I took Booty to pay his devoirs at the tomb of Bethgelert. On the whole, I think Booty enjoyed his trip as much as we did.'

Michael had so much to say about his trip, that they found themselves on the platform before he had half finished. It was half-past five by this time, and a good many business men were returning home. The station was somewhat crowded, but as they piloted their way through the knots of passengers Michael still talked on. Cyril had listened at first with interest; he was becoming much attached to his new friend, and though his masculine undemonstrativeness forbade him to say much about his feelings, his gratitude to Michael was deep and intense, and amid his own troubles he had an unselfish satisfaction in thinking that, whatever his own future might be, Kester's was safe. By and by his attention began to flag; he was watching an old man who stood at a little distance from them at the edge of the platform. He was a very dirty old man, and at any other time his appearance would certainly not have inspired Cyril with the wish to look at him a second time; but he was attracted by his swaying, lurching movements, which would have conveyed to any practised eye that the old reprobate was in an advanced stage of intoxication. What if he were to lose his balance and fall over the edge of the platform? The down train was momentarily expected. Cyril could bear it no longer.

'Excuse me, Burnett,' he said hastily; 'that old fellow looks as though he might topple over any minute;' and before Michael could understand what he meant, he had dived across the platform.

The whistle of the advancing train sounded at that moment, and almost simultaneously there was a shriek of terror from some woman standing at the farther end.

'Poor wretch! he has done for himself,' Michael heard someone say. 'He went clean over.'

Michael was slightly short-sighted, and a crowd of people intercepted his view, and he could not at once make his way through them. He could not see Cyril, but the surging, excited throng all veering towards the end of the platform told him that some serious accident had occurred.