The Humorist
merely of intoxicated miners and, for the moment, equally intoxicated revivalists.
Georgie met us at Neath very late at night. We were tired and dusty, and Drusilla was anxious. She was surprised, I think, that he came without an ambulance and crutches—surprised that he was able to come at all.
"Well?" said I, shortly. An uncomfortable suspicion lurking in my mind came to light much strengthened.
"Drusilla, you are an angel. Martin, it's jolly decent of you to come with her."
"Well," I said quietly, "I rather think I shouldn't have let her come alone. What is the matter with you?"
"The matter?" Georgie looked puzzled. "With me? Oh, I'm all right. It's not me."
I stared.
Drusilla gave a queer little laugh.
"What have you been doing now, Georgie?" she asked.
She guessed by Georgie's face, I suppose, the sort of help he wanted, just as
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