“Oh, very good,” and the look was more significant than ever.
Poor Tom was miserable again. Should he ever get through life, and be done with it? Unluckily he had to get through to-day first, and it dragged miserably enough, but the next promised no better. There was the look again, and the same question: “Sent in your accounts, general?”
What did it mean? He couldn’t get Hal to say that it meant anything, but the same look and the same question came every day, until it seemed to Tom he should go distracted, and he was divided between thankfulness and agony when he heard Mr. Vickery, the next partner, ask suddenly,
“What do you mean, Fenimore? I’ve heard you ask Haggarty that same thing every day for a week; doesn’t he send in his accounts as a matter of course?”
“I don’t know that he doesn’t,” said Hal, “but I’ve noticed a little deficiency, and I’ve been waiting to see it made up.”
“Deficiency!” exclaimed Tom; “what do you mean?”
“Perhaps you thought the item too trifling for a place in the books,” said Hal, with the old intolerable taunt in his tone; “there are people who don’t like to trouble themselves about trifles.”
“Not business people,” said Mr. Vickery, “and Haggarty knows that well enough; if there is anything wrong, it had better be set right as soon as possible,” and he looked searchingly in Tom’s face.
Tom’s desperation gave him boldness for once, as he stepped in front of Hal.