He was up in good time next morning, and, returning the shortest possible answers to the remarks of Mr. Stiles, who was in excellent feather, went with him to the railway station to be certain of his departure.

It was a delightful morning, cool and bright, and, despite his misfortunes.  Mr. Burton’s spirits began to rise as he thought of his approaching deliverance.  Gloom again overtook him at the booking-office, where the unconscionable Mr. Stiles insisted firmly upon a first-class ticket.

“Who ever heard of an admiral riding third?” he demanded, indignantly.

“But they don’t know you’re an admiral,” urged Mr. Burton, trying to humour him.

“No; but I feel like one,” said Mr. Stiles, slapping his pocket.  “I’ve always felt curious to see what it feels like travelling first-class; besides, you can tell Mrs. Dutton.”

“I could tell ’er that in any case,” returned Mr. Burton.

Mr. Stiles looked shocked, and, time pressing, Mr. Burton, breathing so hard that it impeded his utterance, purchased a first-class ticket and conducted him to the carriage.  Mr. Stiles took a seat by the window and lolling back put his foot up on the cushions opposite.  A large bell rang and the carriage-doors were slammed.

“Good-bye, George,” said the traveller, putting his head to the window.  “I’ve enjoyed my visit very much.”

“Good riddance,” said Mr. Burton, savagely.

[Illustration:  “‘Good riddance,’ said Mr. Burton, savagely.”]

Mr. Stiles shook his head.  “I’m letting you off easy,” he said, slowly.  “If it hadn’t ha’ been for one little thing I’d have had the widow myself.”

“What little thing?” demanded the other, as the train began to glide slowly out.

“My wife,” said Mr. Stiles, as a huge smile spread slowly over his face.  “Good-bye, George, and don’t forget to give my love when you go round.”