“It is a long time since we met,” said Hardy, placing himself in front of him.
“Good heavens,” said Jack, regarding him closely, “it's Jemmy Hardy— grown up spick and span like the industrious little boys in the school-books. I heard you were back here.”
“I came back just before you did,” said Hardy. “Brass band playing you in and all that sort of thing, I suppose,” said the other. “Alas, how the wicked prosper—and you were wicked. Do you remember how you used to knock me about?”
“Come round to my place and have a chat,” said Hardy.
Jack shook his head. “They're expecting me in to tea,” he said, with a nod in the direction of Mr. Kybird's, “and honest waterside labourers who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow—when the foreman is looking —do not frequent the society of the upper classes.”
“Don't be a fool,” said Hardy, politely.
“Well, I'm not very tidy,” retorted Mr. Nugent, glancing at his clothes. “I don't mind it myself; I'm a philosopher, and nothing hurts me so long as I have enough to eat and drink; but I don't inflict myself on my friends, and I must say most of them meet me more than half-way.”
“Imagination,” said Hardy.