“Let me know that you get down safely.”
“I shall be as right as rain now. I feel like twenty shillings in the pound since I saw you, sir.”
“Good-bye,” said Myddleton West, holding out his hand, “and good luck to you.”
“Good-bye,” said Bobbie, taking the hand awkwardly, “and good luck to you, sir. You know what I mean. And I’m—I’m very much obliged for all your—”
“There’s a train coming,” interrupted West. “Down you go.”
Bobbie, seated near the window of the impetuous underground train, held tightly the large card intender for the mother of Collingwood Cottage, and as he read advertisements in the compartment congratulated himself on the change of circumstances that had come to him within the last hour. He felt grateful for this, and decided that once safely back in the homes and enjoying the sunshine of favour again, he would comport himself in a manner that would be gratifying to those who wished him well. The bitter days of the journey up from Brenchley had proved to him that the world was full of unforeseen and highly inconvenient rocks for a boy who had no one to pilot him; he must wait until he became older before he courted the responsibility of taking charge of himself. In less than an hour he would be through the gates of the Homes; the delicate matter of his return would be all over, and the past few days could be sponged from memory. So far as concerned the underground railway there could be no complaint of delay, for the train seemed in a great hurry to get round the circle, stopping momentarily at one or two stations in a breathless, panting manner, as who should say, Oh, for goodness sake, don’t stop me, I’m behind-hand as it is, some other time I’ll come round and stay, but just now really—
Other passengers in the compartment went out at one of the stations, and Bobbie stood up at the open window as the train hurried through the black smoky tunnel. The train pulled up, gasping, at another station, starting again immediately with a rough jerk that knocked the card out of Bobbie’s hand on to the platform. He jumped out, picked up the portrait and attempted to re-enter the compartment. The porters shouted,—
“Stan’ away from the train there!”
“Stan’ away, can’t you, stan’ away!”
“Whoa! Stop! You’ll break the door!”