“I’m not spoiling my lad,” retorted Watherston, speaking with emphasis. The two men gazed at each other with the sudden acerbity of manner that comes at times to the closest friends. Chelsfield’s eyes went presently to the fruit on the table. “Ever hear anything of yours?” demanded Watherston, following up his advantage. “There’s no doubt whatever,” replied Chelsfield testily, “that he disappeared in South Africa. I don’t want to discuss the matter again. He was older than your boy. And you know as well as I do that after his mother died he went to the bad.” “You told him to stay there?” “I can give you and your lad a lift as far as Kingsway,” said Chelsfield, “if that’s of any use.” “It won’t be much help to us,” replied his friend candidly; “but we shall be company for you.” The Watherston boy was enthusiastic about the swift ride, enthusiastic about the performance he was about to see, enthusiastic at being with his father, enthusiastic over everything. Chelsfield, watching him on the way, thought that no man desired any better company than that of a cheerful son. Arrived at Holborn, he suddenly announced that he had decided to take the complimentary step of giving up the theatre-box and of joining them in their visit to St. George’s Hall. As he lowered the window and put his head out to speak to his man, the boy and father conferred in a whisper. “Chelsfield!” said the friend, touching his sleeve. “What now?” “Let us get out. I want to speak to you privately. Fact is”—on the pavement—“fact is—you know what boys are, and I’m sure you won’t mind—but he tells me that he would rather go with me alone; and, to tell you the truth, I don’t want to share him this evening. You see, he goes back to Rugby to-morrow.” Chelsfield dismissed his brougham and decided to walk the remainder of the way. He went with head down, and so deep in thought that it startled him when, in a turning from the new highway, he was accosted by one of a long file of men, waiting to march into the shelter for the night. There were about a hundred of them—old, young, middle-aged, all imperfectly shod, hands in pockets. He glanced along the line before replying. The light from a lamp showed the face of one, the youngest of all. “Right you are,” said the man who had spoken to him, in an amiable tone of voice, “if you ’aven’t got any tobacker, you can’t give us none.” “I’ll—I’ll go and get some,” he remarked with agitation. “Good iron!” said the man approvingly. Chelsfield returned from the Strand breathless, a parcel under his arm, and, removing the string with trembling fingers, began the work of distribution. Some of the men received the ounce gratefully, some mentioned that it was all done for the sake of advertisement, some demanded why he had not also brought pipes, some accepted with a snatch. Chelsfield had not regained full control of his breathing powers when he reached the lamp. “No, thanks!” “You—you are not a smoker?”