And then Bags could not speak any more at once. “Thanks, I won’t smoke,” said Maddox. “You were with David at his private school too, weren’t you?” “Yes, two years,” said Bags. “And been pals ever since. Same as me. Both of us David’s friends, I mean.” Bags forgot to be shy of this great Cambridge cricket-blue. “You should have seen David,” he said, jerking out the words. “He went bang for that horse, like taking a header. I—I ought to have done it, you know. I got out of school-shop just in front of him and stood staring.” “Oh, my God, why didn’t you?” said Maddox suddenly. “I know, it was rotten of me,” he said. “But David was so damned quick about it, you know. He just chucked a bag of macaroons at me, and simply jumped. And then the wheel went over him, and he was dragged along with the rein round his wrist.” Bags gave one awful sniff and pointed to a white paper parcel that protruded from the cupboard where tea things were kept. “There they are,” he said. “He told me not to eat any. Last thing he said. And . . . and I want to see him again so frightfully, just to see him you know. What a ripper! He didn’t know how I liked him. You did too. Same boat, isn’t it?” Bags had no pretence of fortitude left, and mopped his eyes. “Damn that horse,” he said. “Who’d have cared if it had killed the whole High Street, so long as David didn’t put his carcase in the light, silly—silly idiot. But—but a fellow just loves him the more for it. I keep thinking over day after day of these last five years. Do you remember when he was swished?” Maddox nodded. “Yes; jolly well deserved it too. And he was so sick with me afterwards when I told him so. But we made it up. David said he was sorry. Silly fool! As if he ever did anything to a pal he could be sorry for.” Bags caught his breath. “Don’t know what there was about him,” he said, “but there he was. Just David, you know. And he liked you most awfully. I used to get damned jealous. Sorry if you mind.” The two sat there together while the warm night with many stars wheeled overhead above the sleeping house, talking occasionally, but for the most part in silence. Adams, who also was sitting up, came in from time to time to see them, and they would sit all three together. From the sick-room came no determining news: David was conscious and awake, and they had given him all the morphia that they dared. His temperature had not risen further, but he was very much exhausted; the question was how his strength would hold out unless he got to sleep. This Adams told them, and perhaps they talked for a little of David, recalling some incident of past days. Then Adams would leave them again to go back to David’s father and sister. But not long after midnight he came in again, having only just gone out.