'Mr. Abel Smith,
Livery Stables,
Mowbray Place Mews,'
and I'll see it comes straight to you. You won't want to give your name maybe? Just put 'Mr. James, care of Abel Smith.'"
"Thank you," said Geoff, with a sigh of relief. "You see," he went on, half apologetically, "there's some one ill at home, and I'd like to know how—how they are."
"To be sure," said Jowett again; "it's only natural. And however bad one's been treated by one's people—and it's easy to see they must have treated you oncommon badly to make a young gent like you have to leave his home and come down to work for his living like a poor boy, though I respects you for it all the more—still own folks is own folks."
He cast a shrewd glance at Geoff, as he spoke. The boy could not help colouring. Had he been treated so "oncommon badly"? Was his determination to run away and be independent of Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's assistance a real manly resolution, or not rather a fit of ill-tempered boyish spite? Would he not have been acting with far more true independence by accepting gratefully the education which would have fitted him for an honourable career in his own rank? for Mr. Byrne, as he knew well by his mother's trust in the old gentleman, was not one to have thrown him aside had he been worthy of assistance.
"But anyway, it's done now," thought the boy, choking down the feelings which began to assert themselves.
At the station, Jowett was as good as his word. He got the paper and a pencil, and Geoff wrote a short note to Vicky, just to tell her he was "all right," and enclosing the address to which she was to write. And Jowett undertook that she should have it that same evening. Had the boy been less preoccupied he could not but have been struck by the curious inconsistencies in the young countryman, who, when he had first met him that morning, had seemed scarcely able to find his way to the station, and yet, when occasion arose, had shown himself as sharp and capable as any Londoner.
But as it was, when the train had whizzed off again, he only felt as if his last friend had deserted him. And it was a very subdued and home-sick Geoffrey who, in the chilly, misty autumn evening, drove the old pony through the muddy lanes to the farm, the empty milk-cans rattling in the cart behind him, and the tears slowly coursing down his cheeks now there was no one to see them.