It wanted about three weeks to the holidays, and Jack and Valentine were returning from the ironmonger's, where they had been purchasing some sandpaper wherewith to put the finishing touches to their work.
"I wish it was midsummer instead of Christmas," the former was saying. "I don't want to go home. I'd much rather go to stay with Aunt Mab at Brenlands."
Valentine was about to reply, when both boys were surprised by a shabby-looking man suddenly crossing from the other side of the street and taking up his stand directly in their path. The stranger wore a battered brown hat, no necktie, and a suit of clothes which he might have stolen from some scarecrow.
"'Afternoon, young gents!" he said.
"Good afternoon," answered Jack shortly, stepping out into the road.
The stranger turned and walked at their side.
"You may not remember me, gents, but I'm Ned Hanks."
"I don't care who you are," answered Valentine; "I don't know you."
"Oh, but I know you, sir; it's Mr. Fenleigh I'm a-talking to. I thought, perhaps, you might like to stand me a drink."
"I say, just be off," cried Jack sharply, "here's old Westford coming."