“Try and find him? What, don’t you know where he lives?”
“No, sir.”
“Humph! London’s a big place, you know.”
“Yes, sir, but I dare say I could find him.”
“What is he—a gentleman?”
“Yes, sir, I think so.”
“So don’t I, my boy, or he’d never have left you in charge of old Pouncewax. But lookye here now; out with it! What do you mean to do—give notice to leave, or are you going to cut?”
“Cut what, sir?”
“Cut what! Why, cut away—run up to London.”
I hesitated for a few moments and hung my head; then, looking up in my old friend’s face, as he thrust his hand into his cuff—and I expected to see him draw his pipe—I felt that I had nothing to fear from him, and I spoke out.