“I have one just like that,” said Louis; “oh, no; here's E. H. on this—that won't do, Casson.”
Casson presently relieved this difficulty by discovering Hamilton's pencil-case; and the paper was quickly sealed, when Louis began to doubt:
“But we don't know what it is, Casson.”
“If it turns out to be any thing, send it by post, directed to him, at his father's,” said Casson; “he'll get it safely enough.”
The dinner-bell rang loudly at this moment, and with a little laugh at the idea of the oddity of sending it to Hamilton's home, and a strong feeling of doubt as to the wisdom of his proceeding, Louis hastily exchanged the packets, and ran out of the room. On his way to the dining-room he paused—
“If it should be of any consequence, Casson,” he said.
“Well, if it is, so much the better fun; he won't treat you so shabbily another time.”
“Ah, but—I don't want to revenge myself, and I don't like playing tricks on Hamilton exactly, either: I think I must give it back.”
“I thought you were such a dab at these kinds of things,” said Casson, sneeringly.
“What have I done with it now?” Louis exclaimed suddenly, as they reached the dining-room door, after stopping a few seconds in the hall to hang up his coat. “What can I have done with it? I must have slipped it into my desk just now, when I put my Livy in.”