Later he was sitting with Riley, squashed into a corner of Magg’s, eating dough-nuts. The crowd in there was terrific and the atmosphere like a slab of chocolate. Riley and he were pressed close together, with boys on every side of them. The noise was deafening. It was the last ten minutes before Magg’s closed. It was Saturday evening, and everyone had pocket-money. The two boys did not speak to one another. Jeremy’s leg was hurting him horribly, but he was as happy as “Five kings and a policeman,” which was one of Uncle Samuel’s ridiculous, meaningless phrases. His arm was round Riley’s neck, more for support than for sentiment, but he did like Riley and he did like Magg’s. He was, perhaps, at that moment as completely alive as he was ever to be. He was so small that he was almost entirely hidden, but somebody caught sight of his hair, which would never lie down flat, and cried across the room, “Three cheers for Stocky, the football hero!” The cheers were hearty if a little absent-minded, the main business of the moment being food, and not football. Jeremy, of course, was pleased, and in his pleasure overbalanced from the edge of the table where he was sitting, slipped forward, and disappeared from men. His leg hurt him too much, and he was too comfortable on the floor and too generally sleepy to bother to get up again, so he stayed there, his arm round Riley’s leg, swallowing his last dough-nut as slowly as possible, feeling that he would like to give dough-nuts in general to all the world.

Yes, it had been a fine day, a splendid day, and there would be days and days and days....

Magg’s was closing. He limped to his feet, and, with their arms round one another’s necks, Riley and he vanished into the dark.

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.