“You won’t tell him what I said, Mr Tom, I know. But I say, don’t you leave your stool. You take my advice. Don’t you give him a chance to row you again, because I can see how it hurts you.”
Tom’s lip quivered as he looked wistfully at the clerk.
“It’s all right, sir. You just do what’s c’rect, and you needn’t mind anything. I ain’t much account, but I do know that. I wouldn’t stay another month, only there’s reasons, you see, and places are easier to lose than find, ’specially when your last guv’nor makes a face with the corners of his lips down when any one asks for your character. Pst! look out. Here he is again.”
For there was a step at the door, the handle rattled, and as Pringle disappeared, a quiet, grave-looking, middle-aged man stepped in.
“Do, Tom!” he said, as with an ejaculation of surprise the boy sprang from his stool and eagerly took the extended hand, but dropped it again directly, for there did not seem to be any warmth in the grasp. “Quite well, boy?”
“Yes, Uncle Richard,” said Tom, rather sadly.
“That’s right. Where’s my brother?”
“He has gone out, sir, and said he might not return this afternoon.”
“Felt I was coming perhaps,” said the visitor. “Here, don’t let me hinder you, my lad; he won’t like you to waste time. Getting on with your law reading?”
The boy looked at him wistfully, and shook his head.