"Oh," he said, "how my head aches directly I move. But I mustn't stay here any longer. Mother will be getting fidgety soon, and perhaps she'll send round to know where I am. I must get up and go now, whether my clothes are dry or not."
But they had received good attention before a blazing fire, and during the three hours in which they had remained in the heat had become thoroughly dry. Again Jack lent his aid, and soon Robert was ready to start on his homeward journey.
If he had been left to walk to Madeira Street alone, perhaps he would never have got there. But Jack once more took a cab, which, by his order, put them down within a few doors of No. 99. Even for the little distance that remained, Robert had company. He felt very grateful to Jack, and told him so as he wrung his hand at parting.
"Jack, old chap, you've been awfully good to me. I don't know what I should have done without you."
"Don't, I can't stand it;" and Jack's voice was actually choked with tears. "If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have gone on the ice at all. It's my fault, and if you had been drowned, it's I who would have been to blame."
"You mustn't say that. But, Jack, I can't go again."
"And I'll never ask you. Robert, from this day you and I'll try to—"
"Try to be better, do you mean, Jack?" asked Robert, for Jack's faltering voice had come to an abrupt stop.
"Yes. I won't be the tease and bully I have been. I'll try to do right myself, and help others to do the same."
"So will I; but oh, Jack!—" and Robert shrank away from the door as he stood on the step—"you don't know how I dread seeing mother. I needn't tell her, need I?"