Nobody contested the verdict. Only across Andy's mind flitted an outlandish memory that it was the hour at which one sat down to supper at the great restaurant—with Harry, the Nun, sardonic Miss Dutton, Billy Foot, and London at large—and at liberty.
"You stop a bit, my lad," said Jack with affection, also with a touch of old-time authority. "I've something to say to you, Andy."
Andy stayed willingly enough; he liked Jack, and he was loth to end that day.
Jack filled and pressed, lit, pressed, and lit again, a fresh clay pipe.
"You like all that sort of thing, Andy?" he asked. "Oh, you know what I mean—what you've been doin' to-day."
"Yes, I like it, Jack." Andy saw that his dear old friend—dear Nancy's brother—had something of moment on his mind.
"But it don't count in the end. It's not business, Andy." Jack's tone had become, suddenly and strangely, persuasive, reasonably persuasive—almost what one might call coaxing.
"I've never considered it in the light of business, Jack."
"Don't let it turn you from business, Andy. You said the timber was worth about two hundred a year to you?"
"About that; it'll be more—or less—before I'm six months older. It's sink or swim, you know."