“Now then, old man, out with it. Where have you been?”
“I’ve been to America,” said Jack. “Don’t ask me any particulars, Len; I wouldn’t tell you much if you did. I’ve been nearly out of my mind half the time, and down with one of their charming fevers the remainder. You won’t get enough information out of me to write even a magazine article, old man.”
And he smiled, with a faint attempt at badinage.
“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Len, again; “and—and is that all?”
“That’s all it amounts to,” said Jack, wearily. “You want to know how I came back, and why? Well, I can scarcely tell why. I got so sick of trying to get knocked on the head, and failing miserably, that I got disgusted with the country, weary of wandering about, and resolved that it would be better to come and give Levy Moss his revenge. He’s still alive, I hope?”
“And you got back?” said Len.
“I worked my passage over,” said Jack, curtly. “I was a bad hand, and caught cold on the top of the last affair, and just managed to pull myself together to reach London, and here I am. Not very lucid, Len, is it? But there’s no more to tell.”
Leonard looked at him with infinite pity, and mixed another glass of whisky.
“Poor old Jack,” he murmured.
“And now it’s your turn,” said Jack, lighting another cigar. “Tell me all the news, Len, about yourself first. How are Hetley, and Dalrymple, and the rest of them? But yourself first, Len. You look well—better than when I left. Things have gone right with you.”