"Now, Peter, you can run home; but I want to take Johnnie Greybreeks with me for an hour or so. Good-bye, Peter. See you again.—Come on, Johnnie."
* * * * *
In about a quarter of an hour's time Tom Morgan reached a tall, handsome building in a quiet street; and upstairs the two went together, and entered a room without knocking. It was a well-furnished office, and at a table, littered with papers and bundles of documents tied up with red tape, sat a white-haired, elderly gentleman, with a very pleasant face of his own.
When he looked up with a smile, Johnnie could see it was Mr. Dawson, whom he had met on that Christmas eve at the house of the Morgans.
"Come along, Tom, and take a seat. Ha! so you've found little Johnnie Greybreeks at last, have you?—How do you do, my little man?—I say, Tom, how is business?"
"Fairly good."
"Well, lad, let me tell you this: it will soon be better, or it will get a send back that will astonish us all."
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Dawson. There must always be ships on the sea, and it is father's business to float them."
"True, true, Tom; but being a lawyer, you know, I perhaps can see farther off than you. Now, believe me, Tom Morgan, when I tell you we are drifting into war with Russia, and our country isn't prepared for it."
Tom Morgan laughed.