The whistles had sounded, and we were already moving slowly out of St.
David's Station, Exeter, to continue our journey westward, when
the door was pulled open and a brown bag, followed by a whiff of
_Millefleurs_ and an over-dressed young man, came flying into the
compartment where I sat alone and smoked.
The youth scrambled to a seat as the door slammed behind him; remarked
that it was "a near shave"; and laughed nervously as if to assure
me that he found it a joke. His face was pink with running, and the
colour contrasted unpleasantly with his pale sandy hair and moustache.
He wore a light check suit, a light-blue tie knotted through a
"Mizpah" ring, a white straw hat with a blue ribbon, and two
finger-rings set with sham diamonds--altogether the sort of outfit
that its owner would probably have described as "rather nobby."
Feeling that just now it needed a few repairs, he opened the bag,
pulled out a duster and flicked away for half-a-minute at his brown
boots. Next with a handkerchief he mopped his face and wiped round the
inner edge first of his straw hat, and then of his collar and cuffs.
After this he stood up, shook his trousers till they hung with
a satisfying gracefulness, produced a cigar-case--covered with
forget-me-nots in crewel work--and a copy of the _Sporting Times_, sat
down again, and asked me if I could oblige him with a light.
I think the train had neared Dawlish before the cigar was fairly
started, and his pink face hidden behind the pink newspaper. But even
so between the red sandstone cliffs and the wholesome sea this pink
thing would not sit still. His diamond rings kept flirting round the
edge of the _Sporting Times_, his brown boots shifting their position
on the cushion in front of him, his legs crossing, uncrossing,
recrossing, his cigar-smoke rising in quick, uneasy puffs.
Between Teignmouth and Newton Abbot this restlessness increased. He
dropped some cigar-ash on his waistcoat and arose to shake it off.
Twice or thrice he picked up the paper and set it down again. As we
ran into Newton Abbot Station, he came over to my side of the carriage
and scanned the small crowd upon the platform. Suddenly his pink
cheeks flushed to crimson. The train was slowing to a standstill, and
while he hesitated with a hand on the door, a little old man came
trotting down the platform--a tremulous little man, in greenish black
broadcloth, eloquent of continued depression in some village retail
trade. His watery eyes shone brimful of pride and gladness.
"Whai, Charley, lad, there you be, to be shure; an' lookin' as peart
as a gladdy! Shaäke your old vather's vist, lad--ees fay, you be
lookin' well!"
The youth, scorched with a miserable shame, stepped out, put his hand
in his father's, and tried to withdraw him a little up the platform
and out of my hearing.
"Noa, noa; us'll bide where us be, zoa's to be 'andy vur the train
when her starts off. Her doan't stay no while. I vound Zam Emmet
zarving here as porter--you mind Zam? Danged if I knawed 'en, vurst
along, the vace of 'en's that altered: grawed a beard, her hev. But
her zays to me, 'How be gettin' 'long, Isaac?' an' then I zaw who
'twas--an' us fell to talkin', and her zaid the train staps vaive
minnits, no more nor less."
His son interrupted him with mincing haughtiness.
"'Ow's mothaw?"
"Weist an' ailin', poor crittur--weist an' ailin'. Dree times her've
a-been through the galvanic battery, an' might zo well whistle. Turble
lot o' zickness about. An' old Miss Ruby's resaigned, an' a new
postmistress come in her plaäce--a tongue-tight pore crittur, an'
talks London. If you'll b'lieve _me_, Miss Ruby's been to Plymouth
'pon her zavings an' come back wi' vifteen pound' worth of valse teeth
in her jaws, which, as I zaid, 'You must excoose my plain speakin',
but they've a-broadened your mouth, Miss Ruby, an' I laiked 'ee better
as you was bevore.' 'Never mind,' her zays, 'I can chow.' There now,
Charley--zimme I've been doing arl the tarlk, an' thy mother'll be
waitin' wi' dree-score o' questions, zoon as I gets whome. Her'd ha'
corned to gie thee a kiss, if her'd a-been 'n a vit staäte; but her's
zent thee zummat--"
He foraged in the skirt pockets of his threadbare coat and brought
out a paper of sandwiches and a long-nosed apple. I saw the young man
wince.
"Her reckoned you'd veel a wamblin' in the stommick, travellin' arl
the waäy from Hexeter to Plymouth. There, stow it awaäy. Not veelin'
peckish? Never maind: there's a plenty o' taime betwix' this an'
Plymouth."
"No, thanks."
"Tut-tut, now--" He insisted, and the packet, on the white paper
wrapper of which spots of grease were spreading, changed hands. The
little man peered wistfully up into his son's face: his own eyes were
full of love, but seemed to search for something.
"How dost laike it, up to Hexeter: an' how't get along?"
"Kepital--kepital. Give mothaw my love."
"E'es be shure. Fainely plaized her'll be to hear thee'rt zo naicely
adrest. Her'd maäde up her maind, pore zowl, that arl your buttons ud
be out, wi' nobody to zee arter 'en. But I declare thee'rt drest laike
a topsawyer."
And with this a dead silence fell between the two. The old man shifted
his weight from one foot to another, and twice cleared his throat. The
young counter-jumper averted his eyes from his father's quivering lip
to stare up the platform. The minutes ran on.