I.
Tom Smith You are getting well on in the thirties, and haven't left off being a fool yet. You have been away in another colony or country for a year or so, and have now come back again. Most of your chums have gone away or got married, or, worse still, signed the pledge -- settled down and got steady; and you feel lonely and desolate and left-behind enough for anything. While drifting aimlessly round town with an eye out for some chance acquaintance to have a knock round with, you run against an old chum whom you never dreamt of meeting, or whom you thought to be in some other part of the country -- or perhaps you knock up against someone who knows the old chum in question, and he says:
"I suppose you know Tom Smith's in Sydney?"
"Tom Smith! Why, I thought he was in Queensland! I haven't seen him for more than three years. Where's the old joker hanging out at all?
Why, except you, there's no one in Australia I'd sooner see than Tom Smith.
Here I've been mooning round like an unemployed for three weeks, looking for someone to have a knock round with, and Tom in Sydney all the time. I wish I'd known before. Where'll I run against him -- where does he live?"
"Oh, he's living at home."
"But where's his home? I was never there."
"Oh, I'll give you his address. . . . There, I think that's it.
I'm not sure about the number, but you'll soon find out in that street -- most of 'em'll know Tom Smith."
"Thanks! I rather think they will. I'm glad I met you.
I'll hunt Tom up to-day."
So you put a few shillings in your pocket, tell your landlady that you're going to visit an old aunt of yours or a sick friend, and mayn't be home that night; and then you start out to hunt up Tom Smith and have at least one more good night, if you die for it.
. . . . .
This is the first time you have seen Tom at home; you knew of his home and people in the old days, but only in a vague, indefinite sort of way. Tom has changed! He is stouter and older-looking; he seems solemn and settled down. You intended to give him a surprise and have a good old jolly laugh with him, but somehow things get suddenly damped at the beginning. He grins and grips your hand right enough, but there seems something wanting. You can't help staring at him, and he seems to look at you in a strange, disappointing way; it doesn't strike you that you also have changed, and perhaps more in his eyes than he in yours. He introduces you to his mother and sisters and brothers, and the rest of the family; or to his wife, as the case may be; and you have to suppress your feelings and be polite and talk common-place.
You hate to be polite and talk common-place. You aren't built that way -- and Tom wasn't either, in the old days. The wife (or the mother and sisters) receives you kindly, for 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 that their clock is twenty minutes fast, and that you have got plenty of time, and so you have to give in. But you are mightily encouraged by a winksome expression which you see, or fancy you see, on your side of Tom's face; also by the fact of his having accidentally knocked his foot against your shins. So you stay.
One of the females tells you to "Sit there, Mr. Brown," and you take your place at the table, and the polite business goes on.
You've got to hold your knife and fork properly, and mind your p's and q's, and when she says, "Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Brown?" you've got to say, "Yes, please, Miss Smith -- thanks -- that's plenty."
And when they press you, as they will, to have more, you've got to keep on saying, "No, thanks, Mrs. Smith; no, thanks, Miss Smith; I really couldn't; I've done very well, thank you;
I had a very late dinner, and so on" -- bother such tommy-rot.
