“Hamish, it is like a romance!” said Mr. Huntley.
“Very nearly, taking one circumstance with another. My father’s return, cured; Roland’s letter; and now Charley’s resuscitation. Their all happening together renders it the more remarkable. Poor Charley does look as much like a ghost as anything, and his curls are gone. They had to cut his hair close in the fever.”
Mr. Huntley paused. “Do you know, Hamish,” he presently said, “I begin to think we were all a set of wiseacres. We might have thought of a barge.”
“If we had thought of a barge, we should never have thought the barge would carry him off,” objected Hamish. “However, we have him back now, and I thank God. I always said he would turn up, you know.”
“I must come and see him,” said Mr. Huntley. “I was at the college school this morning, therefore close to your house, but I did not call. I thought your father would have enough callers, without me.”
Hamish laughed. “He has had a great many. The house, I understand, has been like a fair. He is in Guild Street this afternoon. It looks like the happy old times, to see him at his post again.”
“What are you going to do, now your place is usurped?” asked Mr. Huntley. “Subside into a clerk again, and discharge the one who was taken on in your stead, when you were promoted?”
“That’s the question—what is to be done with me?” returned Hamish, in his joking manner. “I have been telling my father that I had perhaps better pay Port Natal a visit, and join Roland Yorke.”
“I told your father once, that when this time came, I would help you to a post.”
“I am aware you did, sir. But you told me afterwards that you had altered your intention—I was not eligible for it.”