A dangerous friend

by Emma Leslie

But to his disappointment there was no one to be seen at the street corner, and he walked along in the direction of Jack's home in the hope of meeting him. The evening was raw, and little scudding showers of sleet fell every now and then, making most people hurry home as fast as they could, but Tom did not notice this small discomfort in the growing anxiety he felt at Jack's continued absence. He suddenly remembered that although Jack had told him his home lay in this direction, he did not know his address, or where he could find him if he failed to make his appearance.

He walked on for nearly a mile, and then turned and walked back at a quicker pace, fearing that he might have come from another direction, and was now waiting at the corner where they usually met. But when he got back, there was no Jack to be seen, and then an awful fear began to creep over his mind. Suppose he should never come to meet him again. He had got the money that was to be risked on the race! Suppose he went off with the winnings!

In spite of the cold wind and sleet that came beating in his face as he gazed round, Tom went hot all over at the thought. And yet it did not shock him that such an idea as this had entered his head concerning this bosom companion of his. In fact, the notion that this might happen grew stronger, as the minutes went on, and Jack did not make his appearance.

"I might have expected it," muttered Tom under his breath; "I have been a fool to think he would come when he had all that money safe in his hands."

But although he said this, he still paced up and down the road, watching eagerly each figure in the distance that at all resembled Jack's.

In spite of the cold he stayed out later than usual, for he dreaded to go home, and wondered what would become of him if he could not replace the ten shillings he had "borrowed" from his master's money.

But at last the clock of a neighbouring church struck ten, and Tom, as he counted the strokes, felt the tears slowly well into his eyes, for he knew it was useless to wait longer now—Jack would not come.

The utter misery of the lad as he slowly walked down the street homewards can better be imagined than described. And this was the night of his triumph too. Tittlebrat had won the money for them that they had talked of so much, and this was the way he had to celebrate the victory.

He felt too miserable to eat his usual slice of bread by way of supper, and went up to bed as quickly as he could, that he might escape his aunt's watchful eyes, for he felt that she was suspicious of him, careful as he had been to keep his secret to himself.

He lay shivering with cold and misery long after his uncle and aunt came upstairs, and when at last he did fall off into an uneasy sleep, his dreams were of policemen coming to arrest him for the robbery or murder he had committed—sometimes it was one and sometimes the other—but Jack was always the person he had murdered; and truly the feeling he felt towards him now was fitly pictured in these hideous dreams, for nothing short of hatred towards the false friend who had led him astray could find a place in his heart now.