It appeared to me that he must know of my disappointment; for whenever he saw me at the window, and could do so unseen, he threw dabs of clay, or indulged in derisive gestures more extravagant than ever.
I affected to take no heed of these antics, but they annoyed me all the same; and I found myself wishing at times that Mr Brownsmith would take me, if only to give me a chance of some day thrashing that objectionable boy.
I was sitting very disconsolately at the window one day, with a table on which I had been writing drawn up very close to the bay, when I heard a footstep below, and looking down there was Old Brownsmith, who nodded to me familiarly and came up.
“Well,” he said, “how are you? Nice weather for my work.”
He sat down, pursed up his lips, and looked about him for some minutes without speaking.
“News,” he said, “any news?”
“No, sir,” I replied.
“Humph! Not going to make you manager of the Bank of England or Master of the Mint—eh?”
“No, sir. I have had no more news.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” he continued. “Well, I told you the other day not to be rash, for there was plenty of time.”