“You won’t catch the six-thirty from St. Pancras,” replied Baumgartner, scarcely looking up from his paper.
“I will unless I’m in some outlandish part of London!” cried Pocket, reflecting for the first time that he had no idea in what part of London he was. “I must catch it. It’s the last train back to school. I’ll get into an awful row if I don’t!”
“You’ll get into a worse one if you do,” rejoined the doctor, looking over his paper, and not unfeelingly, at the boy.
“What about?”
Pocket held his breath instinctively as their eyes met. Baumgartner answered with increased compassion and restraint, a grey look on his grey face:
“Something that happened this morning. I fear you will be wanted here in town about it.”
“Do tell me what, sir!”
“Can you face things, my young fellow?”
“Is it about my people—my mother?” the boy cried wildly, at her funeral in a flash.
“No—yourself.”