“What now?”
“Let us get out. I want to speak to you privately. Fact is”—on the pavement—“fact is—you know what boys are, and I’m sure you won’t mind—but he tells me that he would rather go with me alone; and, to tell you the truth, I don’t want to share him this evening. You see, he goes back to Rugby to-morrow.”
Chelsfield dismissed his brougham and decided to walk the remainder of the way. He went with head down, and so deep in thought that it startled him when, in a turning from the new highway, he was accosted by one of a long file of men, waiting to march into the shelter for the night. There were about a hundred of them—old, young, middle-aged, all imperfectly shod, hands in pockets. He glanced along the line before replying. The light from a lamp showed the face of one, the youngest of all.
“Right you are,” said the man who had spoken to him, in an amiable tone of voice, “if you ’aven’t got any tobacker, you can’t give us none.”
“I’ll—I’ll go and get some,” he remarked with agitation.
“Good iron!” said the man approvingly.
Chelsfield returned from the Strand breathless, a parcel under his arm, and, removing the string with trembling fingers, began the work of distribution. Some of the men received the ounce gratefully, some mentioned that it was all done for the sake of advertisement, some demanded why he had not also brought pipes, some accepted with a snatch. Chelsfield had not regained full control of his breathing powers when he reached the lamp.
“No, thanks!”
“You—you are not a smoker?”
“I am a smoker; but I don’t accept anything from you.”