Another Installment of Mr. Pigglesworth and Mr. Gimpson!

The 6:25 Liverpool to London train raced down the tracks at 53 and 1/2 miles per hour. Huge wafting billows of dense smoke came back in the headwind, and covered the forward cars' windows with small flakes. Pigglesworth watched the idyllic scenery pass by with glassy eyes, in this gentle snowstorm of incinerated coal.

"I say," Pigglesworth said, nudging his companion in their private first-class compartment, "Gimpson - old man, you should really try this opium I got from the Chinaman at the harbor." With his nudge, Gimpson started, and nearly dropped a huge-and nearly empty bottle of brandy. His head was hanging limp, and he snorted through his nose, and a small trail of clear snot fell onto his whiskers. Drunk as a skunk was an understatement - he was positively pickled in Brandy. Even his boots reeked of the evil-smelling liquor. (it was very, very cheap brandy.)

Pigglesworth was lost himself in a drug-daze, and realized his mistake too late. Gimpson awoke, and began recounting his acceptance speech, for the umpteenth time.

"Distinguished coll-ll-lleag...hic...eagues of the Royal Astro-llol-loll-O-gee-ur-Alll...hic...Shoshiety. Thank," he rolled the next word around in his mouth for a long moment before it came out, "Youse...for...hic...thish prest-hic-prest...idgeoush, award!"

Pigglesworth stared back out the window, and lit a long wooden pipe with a stick match. The room filled with soft white smoke, and the reek of opium mixed with that of cheap rum. It created a foul and unpleasant atmosphere in their closed compartment. Gimpson's ramblings faded to a low uncomfortable din, but still irked Pigglesworth, who just wanted to stare undisturbed, out the window.

Then the compartment door slid open, letting in a wholesome breeze. A man entered rapidly, and slid the door shut behind him. The breeze died away. The man wore a black suit, and carried a black briefcase. He doffed his bowler as he turned around.
"Reginald Smythe, at your service." He said, facing the two with an excellently groomed moustache that reached back to join his brown hair in front of his ears.

"What is the meaning of this sir!" Exclaimed Pigglesworth. "This is a private compartment!"
"Yes, of course," Said Smythe, "But I carry in this briefcase, plans destined for the Royal Navy, and I have fears that agents of a foreign power has designs on them, and I spotted three men that may be, infact, after me and what I carry...and...My god man!" He stopped his narrative, and exclaimed, "What is that horrible stench?!"

Pigglesworth was shaken out of his outrage at the intrusion, by the man's desperate reaction. "I'm afraid it would be my associate, who is blind-drunk on brandy, and myself, who has been adding to the atmosphere by indulging in the horrible drug of opium." Gimpson continued the recounting of his speach, unaware that any interruption had occurred. "That my obser-ser...hic...vations, of the shhhh....shhhh.....sh..steller parallax, in the shouthern hemi...hic...hemi-ish-phehe, might well be the...mosht imp...hic...impor...rrrr...taint..."

Smythe moved forward, across the compartment, and opened a window. Papers flew about in the room, and the reek of coal-smoke added itself to the mixture, but gradually the foulness was sucked out. "I hope you don't mind." Smythe said as he sat next to Pigglesworth. "It really was intolerable!" Pigglesworth agreed, "Not in the least old man. Anything for the security of the British Nation."
"Quite." Replied Smythe. "Now, what's with him?" He pointed across to Gimpson, who was still happily recanting his speech.
"Oh, we're on our way to a presentation at the Royal Observatory, where his work has most certainly determined the exact distance of the earth from the sun. There will be a ceremony, and he's been practicing his speech nearly since we started."

Gimpson continued his beyond drunken rant..."Kn-kn-kn...the knowle...deg ensc...enscon...hic...ed in theshe form...ulash, might...nay will well...hic...cshange the cour-rrrse of shi-hic-sciensh, forever!"

"How much longer till the speech ends?" Smythe asked Pigglesworth.
"Oh, another half-hour at least."
"My god man, it's as intolerable as the atmosphere!"
"I understand," Replied Pigglesworth, "But it's no use. He doesn't know what he's doing, and will talk it out to the end."
"Might I have a try?" Smythe said hopefully.
"Anything you can do that might help." Said Pigglesworth.

Smythe got up and walked over to Gimpson, who sat with every muscle in his body limp as a noodle.
"I say old man." Smythe tapped Gimpson on the shoulder. Gimpson's head rolled back loosely on his neck, and his eyes focused on Smythe for a moment.
"Yesh?" Gimpson asked.
"The Royal Observatory presentation is over. You did wonderfully!" He pulled the bottle out of Gimpson's hands, and shook it in front of his face. "Here's the award they presented to you. Isn't it wonderful?!"
"Oh." Said Gimpson, and his hands mechanically grasped for the brandy. After a few misses, they found the bottle. "Yes," Gimpson spoke clearly. "Yes it is wonderful." He took it, and pulled a long slug from it, draining the rest of the liquor at the bottom. Then he fell on his side, and began to snore.

Smythe sat back next to Pigglesworth, and sighed.

They were all much happier.