“Excuse me a second,” said Heathcote, putting down his traps and turning to the window, “grandma’s here, and I’ve got to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye, grandma,” added the dutiful youth, holding out his hand to a venerable lady who stood by the window.
“Good-bye, Georgie. Give me a kiss, my dear boy.”
Georgie didn’t like kissing in public, especially when the public consisted of Dick. And, yet, he couldn’t well get out of it. So he hurried through the operation as quickly as possible, and stood with his duty towards his relative and his interest towards the razor, wondering why the train didn’t start.
It started at last, and after a few random flickings of his handkerchief out of the window, he was able to devote his entire attention to his friend’s cutlery.
One exhibition provoked another. Heathcote’s “pot” was produced and critically compared with Dick’s. He had no dressing-case, certainly, but he had a silver watch and a steel chain, also a pocket inkpot, and a railway key. And by the way, he thought, the sooner that railway key was brought into play the better.
By its aid they successfully resisted invasion at the different stations as they went along, until at length Heathcote’s watch told them that the next station would be Templeton. Whereat they became grave and packed up their bags, and looked rather wistfully out of the window.
“Father says,” remarked Dick, “only the new boys go up to-day. The rest come to-morrow.”
“Rather a good job,” said Heathcote.
A long silence followed.