Jack lifted his eyes from the letter, and made a grab at the loaf.
"I should like to go," he muttered; "how jolly the place must look!—but no, I've left it too long. I ought to have gone back at once, or never to have run away like that. Of course, now they must think that I stole the watch. Yet, perhaps, if I gave them my word of honour, they'd believe me; I know Aunt Mabel would."
At this moment the door opened, and a gentleman entered the room. He was wearing a shabby-looking dressing-gown, a couple of ragged quill pens were stuck in his mouth, and he carried in his hand a bundle of closely-written sheets of foolscap. Mr. Basil Fenleigh, to tell the truth, was about to issue an invitation to a "few friends" to join him in starting an advertisement and bill-posting agency business; to be conducted, so said the rough copy of the circular, on entirely novel lines, which could not fail to ensure success, and the drafting out of which had occupied most of his leisure time during the past twelve months.
"Humph!" he exclaimed sourly. "Down at your usual time, eh? You'll be late again at your office."
"No, I shan't," answered the son, glancing up at the clock. "I can get there in ten minutes."
"You can't. You know very well Mr. Caston complained only the other day of your coming behind your time. The next thing will be that you'll lose your situation."
"I don't care if I do; I'm heartily sick of the place."
"You're heartily sick of any kind of work, and you always have been."
Jack threw down his knife and fork and rose from the table, leaving part of his breakfast unfinished on his plate.
"All right," he said sulkily; "I'll go at once."