"He will be here in a minute."
"I hope so," said Mr. Hinchford, going to the shop door, and looking down the street, "for it's coming on to rain, and he has no umbrella. The boy will catch his death of cold."
After standing at the door for two or three minutes, the old gentleman turned to go up-stairs again.
"It'll be a thorough wet night—I'll tell Ann to keep plenty of water in the boiler—nothing like your feet in hot water to stave off a cold."
He retired. Half an hour afterwards he reappeared in the shop, excitable and fidgety.
"I can't make it out," he said, after another inspection of the clock; "there's something wrong."
"Perhaps he has gone to the play, sir."
"Pooh! he hates plays," was the contemptuous comment to this; "he wouldn't waste his time in a playhouse. No, Mattie there's something wrong."
"I don't think so," said Mattie, cheerfully. "I would not worry about his absence just yet, sir."
"I'll give him another hour, and then I'll go down to the office and ask after him."