Jobson touched his cap, and while he was making out the bill Jack lit his pipe and paced up and down, his hands in his pockets, the knot of men watching him out of the corners of their eyes with sympathetic curiosity.
Jack paid the bill—so moderate a one that he capped it with half a sovereign over; and with a “good-day” all round, started off. He had not got further than the signpost, when he felt a touch on his arm, and, turning, saw that old Skettle had followed him.
“Halloa,” said Jack, in his blunt way, “what’s the matter?”
The old man looked up at him from under his wrinkled lids, and fumbled at his mouth in a cautious sort of a way.
“I’m very sorry things have gone on so crooked up at the Hurst, Master Jack,” he said, respectfully.
“But not more sorry than I am, Skettle, thank you.”
“I’m afraid it’s rather unexpected, Master Jack,” he continued, his small, keen eyes fixed, not on Jack, but on his second waistcoat-button, counting from the top.
“Well, yes, it is,” said Jack, tugging at his mustache. “Very much so. I’ve got a hit in the bread-basket this time, Skettle, and I’m on my back again.”
Old Skettle looked a keen glance at the handsome face and frank eyes that were looking rather ruefully at the ground.
“Hitting below the belt is not considered fair, is it, Master Jack?” he asked.