e flying into the
compartment where I sat alone and smoked.

The youth scrambled to a seat as the door slammed behind him; remarked
that it was "a near shave"; and laughed nervously as if to assure
me that he found it a joke. His face was pink with running, and the
colour contrasted unpleasantly with his pale sandy hair and moustache.
He wore a light check suit, a light-blue tie knotted through a
"Mizpah" ring, a white straw hat with a blue ribbon, and two
finger-rings set with sham diamonds--altogether the sort of outfit
that its owner would probably have described as "rather nobby."
Feeling that just now it needed a few repairs, he opened the bag,
pulled out a duster and flicked away for half-a-minute at his brown
boots. Next with a handkerchief he mopped his face and wiped round the
inner edge first of his straw hat, and then of his collar and cuffs.
After this he stood up, shook his trousers till they hung with
a satisfying gracefulness, produced a cigar-case--covered with
forget-me-nots in crewel work--and a copy of the _Sporting Times_, sat
down again, and asked me if I could oblige him with a light.

I think the train had neared Dawlish before the cigar was fairly
started, and his pink face hidden behind the pink newspaper. But even
so between the red sandstone cliffs and the wholesome sea this pink
thing would not sit still. His diamond rings kept flirting round the
edge of the _Sporting Times_, his brown boots shifting their position
on the cushion in front of him, his legs crossing, uncrossing,
recrossing, his cigar-smoke rising in quick, uneasy puffs.

Between Teignmouth and Newton Abbot this restlessness increased. He
dropped some cigar-ash on his waistcoat and arose to shake it off.
Twice or thrice he picked up the paper and set it down again. As we
ran into Newton Abbot Station, he came over to my side of the carriage
and scanned the small crowd upon the platform. Suddenly his pink
cheeks flushed to crimson. The train was slowing to a standstill, and
while he hesitated with a hand on the door, a little old man came
trotting down the platform--a tremulous little man, in greenish black
broadcloth, eloquent of continued depression in some village retail
trade. His watery eyes shone brimful of pride and gladness.

"Whai, Charley, lad, there you be, to be shure; an' lookin' as peart
as a gladdy! Shaaeke your old vather's vist, lad--ees fay, you be
lookin' well!"

The youth, scorched with a miserable shame