'Oh no, nothing—never mind. Well now, Davy, this is queer—decidedly queer. Four years!—and we run against each other in Market Street at last. Tell me the truth, Davy—have you long ago given me up as a man who could make promises to a lad in difficulties and forget 'em as soon as he was out of sight? Say it out, my boy.'
David flushed and looked down at his companion with some embarrassment. Their old relation of minister and pupil had left a deep mark behind it. Moreover, in the presence of that face of Mr. Ancrum's, a long, thin, slightly twisted face, with the stamp somehow of a tragic sincerity on the eyes and mouth, it was difficult to think as slightingly of his old friend as he had done for a good while past, apparently with excellent reason.
'I supposed there was something the matter,' he blurted out at last.
'Well, never mind, Davy,' said the other, smiling sadly. 'We can't talk here in this din. But now I've got you, I keep you. Where are you?'
'I'm in Half Street, sir—Purcell's, the bookseller.'
'Don't know him. I never go into a shop. I have no money. Are you apprentice there?'
'Well, there was no binding. I'm assistant. I do a lot of business one way and another, buying and selling both.'
'How long have you been in Manchester?'
'Four years, sir.'
The minister looked amazed.