“It’s too bad, Bill,” I said, in an injured tone; “you had no business to doubt me.”
“More I hadn’t, old lad,” he replied in a deprecating way. “But you know, Ant’ny, I had been a-sitting here wait-wait-waiting and thinking all sorts o’ things.”
“Why didn’t you go to bed?”
“I’d been thinking, old lad, that being a holiday, you might be hungry, and look here.”
He opened the little cupboard and took out a raised pork pie and a bottle of pale ale.
“I’d got the cloth laid and the knives and forks out ready, but I got in such a wax about one o’clock that I snatched ’em all off and cleared ’em away.”
“And why did you get in a wax, Bill?” I said. “You ought to have known me better.”
“So I ought, old lad,” he said penitently; “but I got thinking you’d chucked me over, and was out on larks with that there Hallett; and it ain’t nice to be chucked over for a chap like that, specially when you seem to belong to me. You’ll shake hands, won’t you, Tony?”
“Of course I will.”
“And I won’t doubt you another time; let’s have the pie, after all.”