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Mrs. Pomeroy travelled to Southfleet in the corner of a second-class carriage, and James Slade in the corner of a third. Mrs. Pomeroy’s compartment contained two other passengers, a middle-aged couple who had every appearance of being profoundly bored with each other. Slade’s compartment was full, and its complement included an East End “Pearly”, his wife and two very active children in a state of great excitement. It was a holiday affair, and both children had buckets and spades.

Slade sat tucked in his corner and watched them. He watched almost as though they were the first children he had seen for years, and their naturalness delighted him. These youngsters were so care-free and jolly. They trampled up and down from window to window and chattered and asked questions, until their mother reproved them.

“Come ’ere and sit darn, Ethel. You’re treadin’ on the gentleman’s boots.”

“I don’t mind,” said Mr. Slade.

A smile crinkled round his eyes. Ethel looked at him, and Ethel liked him. She too smiled, and made eyes at Mr. Slade, and wriggled and sucked a finger.

“Going to the sea, dear?”

“Yus.”

“That will be jolly fun. Dig on the sands and paddle?”

“Yus.”

Ethel wriggled and, lurching against Mr. Slade’s knees, was lifted up on them.

“I’ve got a new ’at.”

“What a pretty hat.”

Ethel giggled.

“Where you goin’?”

“I’m going to Southfleet.”

The mother bent forward and addressed Mr. Slade.

“If she’s bein’ a noosance, mister——”

“Not at all. I like children—What’s your brother’s name, my dear?”

Brother answered for himself.

“Syd.”

“How do you do, Syd?”

“Nicely, mister, thank yer.”

Father produced a big black bottle. He withdrew the cork, wiped the mouth with a handkerchief, and offered the bottle to Mr. Slade.

“ ’Ave a drop, mister, wiv me.”

Mr. Slade gave a sort of shy little bow, accepted the bottle, and had a drop.

A tinge of colour came into his pale face. He looked like a man who had been starved and ill, and was feeling all the better for company, contact with simple humanity. Children might be crude little egoists, but they did keep you guessing, and reflecting that life was not all stale fish and sawdust. Mr. Slade had returned the bottle to his new friend, and the coster, having wiped it, offered it to his wife. She shook her head at him, and the feather danced in her big black hat. To-day she was feeling rather the mother and the lady. Her husband, glancing at the traveller opposite him, a precise and bearded person with spectacles and fierce eyebrows, thought better of it, and refrained. He took a pull at the bottle, gurgled, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and grinned at Mr. Slade.

“Lemme ’ave a drink, dad,” said Sydney.

“What’ll yer muvver say?”

Sydney’s mother’s response was an emphatic no. Sydney was told to put his hat straight. Her husband re-wiped the mouth of the bottle, and offered it again to Mr. Slade.

“ ’Ave another drop, mister.”

Mr. Slade had another drop, or pretended to do so, and passed the bottle back again. The coster had a second pull, re-corked the bottle and, nudged by his wife, slipped it back into his pocket. Ethel was still making goo-goo glances at her new friend. Mr. Slade felt glad that he was in this third-class carriage, and not in the second with his mistress. Mrs. Pomeroy was a formidable person. Most certainly she would not have approved of these vulgar people and the black bottle.

The coster stood up and reached for something in the rack, a concertina. He looked at his fellow traveller, especially so at the forbidding gentleman, and then at Mr. Slade.

“Anybody mind a bit o’ music?”

No one objected, and the concertina let out a squawk.

“Play—‘Disy—Disy,’ dad.”

Mr. Slade nodded.

“Anyfink you’d like—particular—mister?”

“Can you play ‘My Old Dutch’?”

“Not ’arf——”

“Please play it.”

The coster began to swing the concertina to and fro, and the concert commenced. Ethel rolled to and fro on Mr. Slade’s knees. Sydney sang in a nasal treble. The severe gentleman seemed to pin his eyes and his beard to his book. He got out at the next station.