Mr. George Burton, naval pensioner, sat at the door
of his lodgings gazing in placid content at the sea.
It was early summer, and the air was heavy with the
scent of flowers; Mr. Burton’s pipe was cold
and empty, and his pouch upstairs. He shook
his head gently as he realised this, and, yielding
to the drowsy quiet of his surroundings, laid aside
the useless pipe and fell into a doze.
[Illustration: “Sat at the door of his
lodgings gazing in placid content at the sea.”]
He was awakened half an hour later by the sound of
footsteps. A tall, strongly built man was approaching
from the direction of the town, and Mr. Burton, as
he gazed at him sleepily, began to wonder where he
had seen him before. Even when the stranger
stopped and stood smiling down at him his memory proved
unequal to the occasion, and he sat staring at the
handsome, shaven face, with its little fringe of grey
whisker, waiting for enlightenment.
“George, my buck,” said the stranger,
giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder, “how
goes it?” “D—– Bless
my eyes, I mean,” said Mr. Burton, correcting
himself, “if it ain’t Joe Stiles.
I didn’t know you without your beard.”
“That’s me,” said the other.
“It’s quite by accident I heard where
you were living, George; I offered to go and sling
my hammock with old Dingle for a week or two, and
he told me. Nice quiet little place, Seacombe.
Ah, you were lucky to get your pension, George.”
“I deserved it,” said Mr. Burton, sharply,
as he fancied he detected something ambiguous in his
friend’s remark.
“Of course you did,” said Mr. Stiles;
“so did I, but I didn’t get it. Well,
it’s a poor heart that never rejoices.
What about that drink you were speaking of, George?”
“I hardly ever touch anything now,” replied
his friend.
“I was thinking about myself,” said Mr.
Stiles. “I can’t bear the stuff,
but the doctor says I must have it. You know
what doctors are, George!”
Mr. Burton did not deign to reply, but led the way
indoors.
“Very comfortable quarters, George,” remarked
Mr. Stiles, gazing round the room approvingly; “ship-shape
and tidy. I’m glad I met old Dingle.
Why, I might never ha’ seen you again; and us
such pals, too.”
His host grunted, and from the back of a small cupboard,
produced a bottle of whisky and a glass, and set them
on the table. After a momentary hesitation he
found another glass.
“Our noble selves,” said Mr. Stiles, with
a tinge of reproach in his tones, “and may we
never forget old friendships.”
Mr. Burton drank the toast. “I hardly
know what it’s like now, Joe,” he said,
slowly. “You wouldn’t believe how
soon you can lose the taste for it.”
Mr. Stiles said he would take his word for it.
“You’ve got some nice little public-houses
about here, too,” he remarked. “There’s
one I passed called the Cock and Flowerpot; nice cosy
little place it would be to spend the evening in.”
