I have a son, William. But there are compensations; he is at school.
It was at the crisis of parting at the station that it seemed to me necessary to give William a word of parental advice. I hate seeing small boys at such moments stuffing themselves in refreshment-rooms.
"William," I said, "life is not all cricket and football."
"No, father" replied William, looking hard at the refreshment-room, "there's golf."
"That, William, is scarcely a game. I should describe it in my own case as an exercise taken under medical advice, to obtain relief from business strain."
"Father," burst out William, "there's Cheffins minor in the refreshment-room."
"William," I proceeded, "at the end of each term I receive an unsatisfactory report about you from your house-master. It is only then that I know you have wasted three months of golden time." ("Golden time" was a happy inspiration.)
"Old Starks is a rotter," said William briefly.
"Now I put you on your honour, William, to send me a truthful report of your progress at the half-term. Then if you are not doing well I can write and ask that you should have special attention. On your honour, mind."
"Yes, father. Shall we go across to the refreshment-room now?"