“I say,” said Bobbie, leaning out of the carriage window, when he had been helped into the train, “I want to speak to you.”
“Me?” asked the Customs.
“You?” said Bobbie, with infinite scorn. “Good ’Eavens, no. I mean her.” The angel stepped forward. “I want to ask you something,” he said rather unsteadily.
“I know what it is,” declared the angel gaily. “You want me to remember to send you some of the cake.”
“What cake?”
“Oh, as if you didn’t know,” said the angel reproachfully. “Why, my weddin’ cake, of course. Don’t say you haven’t heard that me and him,” indicating the tall Customs officer, “are going to be married next month at—. Now you’re off. Good-bye, dear.”
“Be a good lad,” cried Coastguard, as the train moved.
“Be sure to get out at Cannon Street,” called the curate, flying along the platform, “and don’t forget to say your prayers at night.”
When, two hours later, the train ran into the London terminus, porters surveyed with critical eye each compartment, and having made hurried selections, staked out their claim by seizing a carriage handle as they trotted along till the train stopped. Bobbie, rather ill-tempered on the journey because his affairs of the heart had been so brutally checked, had his head out of the window as the train slowed up.
“Any luggage?” asked the porter breathlessly.