But
no. Off he went again in the same old way. I gave up arguing with him.
I had a good deal of time on my hands, but not enough to amount to
anything when it was a question of reforming dear old Bobbie by argument.
If you see a man asking for trouble, and insisting on getting it, the
only thing to do is to stand by and wait till it comes to him. After
that you may get a chance. But till then there's nothing to be done.
But I thought a lot about him.
Bobbie didn't get into the soup all at once. Weeks went by, and months,
and still nothing happened. Now and then he'd come into the club with a
kind of cloud on his shining morning face, and I'd know that there had
been doings in the home; but it wasn't till well on in the spring that
he got the thunderbolt just where he had been asking for it--in the
thorax.
I was smoking a quiet cigarette one morning in the window looking out
over Piccadilly, and watching the buses and motors going up one way and
down the other--most interesting it is; I often do it--when in rushed
Bobbie, with his eyes bulging and his face the colour of an oyster,
waving a piece of paper in his hand.
"Reggie," he said. "Reggie, old top, she's gone!"
"Gone!" I said. "Who?"
"Mary, of course! Gone! Left me! Gone!"
"Where?" I said.
Silly question? Perhaps you're right. Anyhow, dear old Bobbie nearly
foamed at the mouth.
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