Away he went. Jenkins, with his aching head and his harassing cough, applied himself diligently, as he ever did, to the afternoon’s work, and got through it by six o’clock, which was later than usual. There then remained the copying, which Mr. Roland Yorke ought to have done. Knowing the value of Roland’s promises, and knowing also that if he kept this promise ever so strictly, the amount of copying was more than could be completed in time, if left to the morning, Jenkins did as he had been aware he must do, when talking with Roland—took it home with him.
The parchments under his arm, he set out on his walk. What could be the matter with him, that he felt so weak, he asked himself as he went along. It must be, he believed, having gone without his dinner. Jenkins generally went home to dinner at twelve, and returned at one; occasionally, however, he did not go until two, according to the exigencies of the office; this day, he had not gone at all, but had cut a sandwich at breakfast-time and brought it with him in his pocket.
He had proceeded as far as the elm trees in the Boundaries—for Jenkins generally chose the quiet cloister way for his road home—when he saw Arthur Channing advancing towards him. With the ever-ready, respectful, cordial smile with which he was wont to greet Arthur whenever he saw him, Jenkins quickened his steps. But suddenly the smile seemed to fix itself upon his lips; and the parchments fell from his arm, and he staggered against the palings. But that Arthur was at hand to support him, he might have fallen to the ground.
“Why, what is it, Jenkins?” asked Arthur, kindly, when Jenkins was beginning to recover himself.
“Thank you, sir; I don’t know what it could have been. Just as I was looking at you, a mist seemed to come before my eyes, and I felt giddy. I suppose it was a sort of faintness that came over me. I had been thinking that I felt weary. Thank you very much, sir.”
“Take my arm, Jenkins,” said Arthur, as he picked up the parchments, and took possession of them. “I’ll see you home.”
“Oh no, sir, indeed,” protested simple-hearted Jenkins; “I’d not think of such a thing. I should feel quite ashamed, sir, at the thought of your being seen arm-in-arm with me in the street. I can go quite well alone; I can, indeed, sir.”
Arthur burst out laughing. “I wish you wouldn’t be such an old duffer, Jenkins—as the college boys have it! Do you suppose I should let you go home by yourself? Come along.”
Drawing Jenkins’s arm within his own, Arthur turned with him. Jenkins really did not like it. Sensitive to a degree was he: and, to his humble mind, it seemed that Arthur was out of place, walking familiarly with him.
“You must have been doing something to tire yourself,” said Arthur as they went along.