One day we were in a train, he and I, not a tube, of course, but the aboveground Hammersmith line that runs from Paddington. A beggar was working the passengers, carrying his tin for contributions in one hand and a card with “Homeless and Hungry” on it in the other. There were some who gave him their loose change but most people ignored him, taking a sudden passionate interest in their newspapers or staring with concentration at the advertisements. Silver beckoned him over and patted the seat next to him. The beggar thought he was going to get a fiver, I suppose, but Silver took the card from him and asked if he’d like something a bit more dynamic written on it, something that would appeal to people’s sympathy. The beggar said he would, mate, you bet. “Homeless and Hungry” wasn’t getting him very far. Silver turned the card over and wrote on it in big print with the thick felt-tip he always carried, “Would I be doing this if I could do anything else?”

It worked. We followed him into the next carriage and watched him collect—notes as well as coins. Morna told me Silver had done this sort of thing before. They were walking down Queensway together, it was a fine day in early April, and a blind man sitting on the pavement asked them for money. He hadn’t a card at all, only his dog and his white stick. Silver bought a card in a newsagent’s, wrote on it “It’s spring and I’m blind” and propped it up against his begging tin. It drew a crowd, Morna said. He told Silver he ought to be an advertising copywriter and Silver said maybe he would one day, he was too busy with other things at present. I don’t know if those two examples illustrate Silver’s faculty of happiness, perhaps they don’t, perhaps they’re irrelevant, but they’re typical of the way he was.