"A telegram, sir, and there's a shilling to pay."
"Con-found these extra charges!" broke out Mr. Barkworth irritably. "What's the good of paying taxes to bolster up a wretched Post Office that can't give us free delivery? Give the man his shilling, and tell him not to dare show his face again!"
He tore open the envelope, stared at the message for some moments in inarticulate surprise, and then ejaculated:
"God bless my soul, he's found! Tom's found! We can do without the Prime Minister! 'Gad, didn't I say he'd turn up some day! Listen, Lilian; a despatch from the cable company forwarded by the Post Office: 'Tom found; mail follows.--O'Brien.' Might have said a little more; what's a shilling or two, eh?--Well, Jane, what is it now?"
"Another telegram, sir, and, if you please, this man wants a shilling too."
Mr. Barkworth pulled out a handful of silver, and picked it over.
"Here, I can't find a shilling; give him this half-crown and tell him to put it in the Post Office Savings Bank. Now what's this about, h'm?"
Lilian watched him anxiously as he opened the brown envelope, half fearing it might contain a contradiction of the good news.
"Eh! what!" he exclaimed. "It's from Jack Burnaby himself. 'Tom found; am starting for Mombasa to-morrow; will you come?'"
"Oh, do take me, Father!" cried Lilian, clasping his arm. "I'm sure you won't go without me."