His son interrupted him with mincing haughtiness.

“’Ow’s mothaw?”

“Weist an’ ailin’, poor crittur—­weist an’ ailin’.  Dree times her’ve a-been through the galvanic battery, an’ might zo well whistle.  Turble lot o’ zickness about.  An’ old Miss Ruby’s resaigned, an’ a new postmistress come in her plaaece—­a tongue-tight pore crittur, an’ talks London.  If you’ll b’lieve me, Miss Ruby’s been to Plymouth ‘pon her zavings an’ come back wi’ vifteen pound’ worth of valse teeth in her jaws, which, as I zaid, ‘You must excoose my plain speakin’, but they’ve a-broadened your mouth, Miss Ruby, an’ I laiked ’ee better as you was bevore.’  ‘Never mind,’ her zays, ‘I can chow.’  There now, Charley—­zimme I’ve been doing arl the tarlk, an’ thy mother’ll be waitin’ wi’ dree-score o’ questions, zoon as I gets whome.  Her’d ha’ corned to gie thee a kiss, if her’d a-been ’n a vit staaete; but her’s zent thee zummat—­”

He foraged in the skirt pockets of his threadbare coat and brought out a paper of sandwiches and a long-nosed apple.  I saw the young man wince.

“Her reckoned you’d veel a wamblin’ in the stommick, travellin’ arl the waaey from Hexeter to Plymouth.  There, stow it awaaey.  Not veelin’ peckish?  Never maind:  there’s a plenty o’ taime betwix’ this an’ Plymouth.”

“No, thanks.”

“Tut-tut, now—­” He insisted, and the packet, on the white paper wrapper of which spots of grease were spreading, changed hands.  The little man peered wistfully up into his son’s face:  his own eyes were full of love, but seemed to search for something.

“How dost laike it, up to Hexeter:  an’ how’t get along?”

“Kepital—­kepital.  Give mothaw my love.”

“E’es be shure.  Fainely plaized her’ll be to hear thee’rt zo naicely adrest.  Her’d maaede up her maind, pore zowl, that arl your buttons ud be out, wi’ nobody to zee arter ’en.  But I declare thee’rt drest laike a topsawyer.”

And with this a dead silence fell between the two.  The old man shifted his weight from one foot to another, and twice cleared his throat.  The young counter-jumper averted his eyes from his father’s quivering lip to stare up the platform.  The minutes ran on.

At last the old man found his voice—­

“Thic’ there’s a stubbard apple you’ve got in your hand.”

“Take your seats, please!”

The guard held the door while they shook hands again.  “Charley” leaned out at the window as our train began to move.

“Her comes from the zeccond ’spalier past the inyon-bed; al’ays the vurst to raipen, thic’ there tree.”

The old fellow broke into something resembling a run as he followed our carriage to shout—­

“Turble bad zayson vur zaider!”

With that he halted at the end of the platform, and watched us out of sight.  His son flung himself on the seat with—­I could have kicked him for it—­a deprecatory titter.  Then he drew a long breath; but it was twenty minutes before his blush faded, and he regained confidence to ask me for another light.