LAST OF SMETHURST
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.
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