"A what? Scoundrel? Pooh, nonsense! What's up now? Come, now, old boy, no melodrama. Out with it. But, first of all, read the letter."
Jack laid the unopened letter on the table, filled his pipe, lighted it, and then, throwing himself back in his chair, sat staring at the ceiling, and sending forth great clouds of smoke that gathered in dense folds and soon hung overhead in a dark canopy.
I watched him in silence for some time. I suspected what that letter might be, but did not in any way let my suspicion appear.
"Jack," said I, at last, "I've seen you several times in trouble during the last few days, but it is now my solemn conviction, made up from a long observation of your character, your manner, your general style, and your facial expression, that on this present occasion you are hit harder than ever you've been since I had the pleasure of your acquaintance."
"That's a fact," said Jack, earnestly and solemnly.
"It isn't a secret, you said?"
"No, not from you. I'll tell you presently. I need one pipe, at least, to soothe my nerves."
He relapsed into silence, and, as I saw that he intended to tell me of his own accord, I questioned him no further, but sat waiting patiently till he found strength to begin the confession of his woes.
At length he reached forward, and once more raised the letter from the table.
"Macrorie, my boy."