That evening I got into a third-class carriage on my way for
Keswick, and was followed almost immediately by a burly man in
brown clothes.
This fellow-passenger was seemingly ill at ease,
and kept continually putting his head out of the window, and asking
the bystanders if they saw HIM coming. At last, when the train was
already in motion, there was a commotion on the platform, and a way
was left clear to our carriage door. HE had arrived. In the hurry
I could just see Smethurst, red and panting, thrust a couple of
clay pipes into my companion's outstretched band, and hear him
crying his farewells after us as we slipped out of the station at
an ever accelerating pace. I said something about it being a close
run, and the broad man, already engaged in filling one of the
pipes, assented, and went on to tell me of his own stupidity in
forgetting a necessary, and of how his friend had good-naturedly
gone down town at the last moment to supply the omission. I
mentioned that I had seen Mr. Smethurst already, and that he had
been very polite to me; and we fell into a discussion of the
hatter's merits that lasted some time and left us quite good
friends at its conclusion. The topic was productive of goodwill.
We exchanged tobacco and talked about the season, and agreed at
last that we should go to the same hotel at Keswick and sup in
company.
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