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Armstrong lived in London. As we were getting up in the early morning he found out that I too had to go to London, and asked me to have breakfast with him at Miller's, where they give you a decent tuck-in for 1/6, and besides Knight's is so dirty, and he hadn't paid his tick there yet for last term. I agreed to go with him, though in a glum sort of a way; for I was in an irresolute humour, half dissatisfied with everything and everybody, particularly myself. Well, into Miller's we went together—through the shop into a small poky gaslit room where, round a table, sat some four or five fellows 'tucking in' at coffee, bread, eggs and bacon, and jam. In a little, I got a seat next Tolby-Jenkins, a fat monitorial fool of ignoble sort.
Armstrong and I were coming down the grey-morning hill to the station before I returned to myself again. And then there was an entry into a tobacconist's just opened and a purchase by Armstrong of bird's-eye and some cigarettes.
'Aren't you going to get anything?' asked he, half-turning to look at me who was looking out of the door across the station yard to the station steps and doorway. I turned and met his look.
'Very well,' I said, 'give me a box of cigarettes.' And took out a shilling and 'lifted' it from where I was on to the counter.
We crossed into the station. A good many fellows were about. Armstrong had talk with some, and, in the end, I got into one of the London carriages after him and sat down next the fellow at the far end facing the engine. Directly opposite me was Norris our stroke, of the School House I mean, and in the corner
