Sam turned pale as he now met Tom’s keen look.
It was all momentary, in the interval of Mr Brandon’s first words and his next question. “Then how is it that Mr Wilcox has not received it, and been on to me at home full of anxiety about not having my answer to an important question?”
“I don’t know, father,” said Sam sharply.
“Are you sure you posted the letter?”
“Oh yes, father. No; I recollect now: some one came in on business, to ask for you, and I told Tom Blount here to take it directly. Oh!” he cried, “I say, it is too bad. Why, you didn’t take it, Tom. Here’s the letter, father, all the time.”
He took up and held out the unfortunate missive, shaking his head at Tom the while.
“You never told me to take any letter yesterday,” said Tom quietly.
“Oh—my! What a lie, to be sure!” cried Sam, as if perfectly astounded. “Pringle must have heard me at the time.”
“Of course,” said his father, speaking with his lips tightly compressed, so that his voice sounded muttering and indistinct. Then aloud—“Here, Pringle.”
Scroop went Pringle’s stool, and he hurried in. “You call, sir?”