"Yes—unhappy," Verty said, leaning his head on his wrist.
"Who's the letter from?"
"It's marked private and confidential, sir; I ought not to tell you—ought I."
"No, sir, by no means," said Roundjacket; "I would'nt listen to it for a bag of doubloons. But you should read it."
"I will, sir," Verty said, sighing.
And he spread the letter out before him and read it carefully, with many varying expressions on his face. The last expression of all, however, was grief and pain. As he finished, his head again drooped, and his sorrowful eyes were fixed on vacancy.
"I'll tell you what it is, Verty, my friend," said Roundjacket, chuckling, "I don't think we make much by keeping you from paying a daily visit to some of your friends. My own opinion is, that you would do more work if you went and had some amusement."
"And I think so, too," said a rough voice behind the speaker, whose back was turned to the front door of the office; "it is refreshing to hear you talking sense, instead of nonsense, once in your life, Roundjacket."
And Mr. Rushton strode in, and looked around him with a scowl.
"Good morning, sir," said Verty, sadly.