And you don't seem to have any appetite, anyway. And you think of the days out on the track when you and Tom sat on your swags under a mulga at mid-day, and ate mutton and johnny-cake with clasp-knives, and drank by turns out of the old, battered, leaky billy.
And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes are wasted, and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on the fidget to get out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you know some girls.
And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential, and seizes an opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is now that he never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society (or the Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of nights.
Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier that you wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again by a glimpse of Tom putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit; but when you are ready to go, and ask him if he's coming a bit down the street with you, he says he thinks he will in such a disinterested, don't-mind-if-I-do sort of tone, that he makes you mad.
At last, after promising to "drop in again, Mr. Brown, whenever you're passing," and to "don't forget to call," and thanking them for their assurance that they'll "be always glad to see you," and telling them that you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself, and are awfully sorry you couldn't stay -- you get away with Tom.
You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner and down the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation is mostly common-place, such as, "Well, how have you been getting on all this time, Tom?" "Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?" and so on.
But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind to chance the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink, he throws a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder, says "Come on," and disappears sideways into a pub.
. . . . .
"What's yours, Tom?" "What's yours, Joe?" "The same for me."
"Well, here's luck, old man." "Here's luck." You take a drink, and look over your glass at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face, and it makes you glad -- you could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years.
Then something tickles him -- your expression, perhaps, or a recollection of the past -- and he sets down his glass on the bar and laughs. Then you laugh. Oh, there's no smile like the smile that old mates favour each other with over the tops of their glasses when they meet again after years. It is eloquent, because of the memories that give it birth.
"Here's another. Do you remember ----? Do you remember ----?"
Oh, it all comes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit; just the same good-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again!
"It's just like old times," says Tom, after three or four more drinks.
. . . . .
And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly.
You get as "glorious" as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter, and have a better "time" than any of the times you had in the old days.
And you see Tom as nearly home in the morning as you dare, and he reckons he'll get it hot from his people -- which no doubt he will -- and he explains that they are very particular up at home -- church people, you know -- and, of course, especially if he's married, it's understood between you that you'd better not call for him up at home after this -- at least, not till things have cooled down a bit.
