“You’re an awfully good fellow, Harry; for, upon my soul, I was at my wit’s end almost; having no one to talk to, and not knowing what any one might be thinking of; and I feel safe in your hands, Harry, for I think you understand that sort of work so much better than I do—you understand people so much better—and I never was good at managing any one, or anything for that matter; and—and when will business bring you to town again?”
“Three weeks or so, I wouldn’t wonder,” said Harry.
“And I know, Harry, you won’t forget me. I’m afraid to write to you almost; but if you’d think of any place we could meet and have a talk, I’d be ever so glad. You have no idea how fidgety and miserable a fellow grows that doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“Ay, to be sure; well, I’ve no objection. My book’s made for ten days or so—a lot of places to go to—but I’ll be coming round again, and I’ll tip you a stave.”
“That’s a good fellow; I know you won’t forget me,” said Charles, placing his hand on his brother’s arm.
“No—of course. Good-night, and take care of yourself, and give my love to Ally.”
“And—and Harry?”
“Well?” answered Harry, backing his restless horse a little bit.
“I believe that’s all.”
“Good-night, then.”