r Tom's sake, and makes much of you; but they don't know you
yet. You want to get Tom outside, and have a yarn and a drink and a
laugh with him--you are bursting to tell him all about yourself, and get
him to tell you all about himself, and ask him if he remembers things;
and you wonder if he is bursting the same way, and hope he is. The old
lady and sisters (or the wife) bore you pretty soon, and you wonder
if they bore Tom; you almost fancy, from his looks, that they do. You
wonder whether Tom is coming out to-night, whether he wants to get out,
and if he wants to and wants to get out by himself, whether he'll be
able to manage it; but you daren't broach the subject, it wouldn't be
polite. You've got to be polite. Then you get worried by the thought
that Tom is bursting to get out with you and only wants an excuse; is
waiting, in fact, and hoping for you to ask him in an off-hand sort of
way to come out for a stroll. But you're not quite sure; and besides, if
you were, you wouldn't have the courage. By-and-bye you get tired of
it all, thirsty, and want to get out in the open air. You get tired of
saying, "Do you really, Mrs. Smith?" or "Do you think so, Miss Smith?"
or "You were quite right, Mrs. Smith," and "Well, I think so too, Mrs.
Smith," or, to the brother, "That's just what I thought, Mr. Smith."
You don't want to "talk pretty" to them, and listen to their wishy-washy
nonsense; you want to get out and have a roaring spree with Tom, as you
had in the old days; you want to make another night of it with your
old mate, Tom Smith; and pretty soon you get the blues badly, and feel
nearly smothered in there, and you've got to get out and have a beer
anyway--Tom or no Tom; and you begin to feel wild with Tom himself; and
at last you make a bold dash for it and chance Tom. You get up, look
at your hat, and say: "Ah, well, I must be going, Tom; I've got to meet
someone down the street at seven o'clock. Where'll I meet you in town
next week?"

But Tom says:

"Oh, dash it; you ain't going yet. Stay to tea, Joe, stay to tea. It'll
be on the table in a minute. Sit down--sit down, man! Here, gimme your
hat."

And Tom's sister, or wife, or mother comes in with an apron on and her
hands all over flour, and says:

"Oh, you're not going yet, Mr. Brown? Tea'll be ready in a minute. Do
stay for tea." And if you make excuses, she cross-examines you about the
time you've got to keep that appointment down the street, and tells you