“Have you lost anything or anybody?” asked Paul, laughing, after he had saluted the principal.
“Yes, we have lost a student; an English boy we shipped at Christiansand. Have you seen him?”
“Yes, sir; his room is No. 32—next to mine,” replied Paul, still laughing, as though he were much amused.
He was much amused; and that others may sympathize with him, let the reader return to Clyde Blacklock, who had shut himself up in his room to await the arrival of his mother. He had not been in the house ten minutes before he began to be impatient and disgusted with his self-imposed confinement. He examined himself carefully in the looking-glass, and was satisfied that his new clothes disguised him from his late shipmates, and also from those whom he had met on board of the Orlando. Certainly they had wrought a very great change in his appearance, and with the round-top hat on, which was entirely different from anything he had worn before, even his mother would not recognize him, unless they came near enough together to enable her to scrutinize his features. Of course none of the people from the squadron would come to the hotel, and he had not yet been called upon to register his name.
He unlocked his door, and went into the long entry which opened into the court-yard. It was stupid to stay alone in his chamber. It was some relief even to promenade the hall, for one so nervous as he was at this time. If any of the Orlando’s passengers came near him, he could retreat into his room. He walked up and down several times, but this soon became stale amusement.
“Who’s in the next room to mine?” he asked, as one of the waiters passed him in his promenade.
“Gentleman and lady from America, sir,” replied the man; “an uncommon handsome young woman, sir.”
Before the waiter could further express his opinion of the guests in No. 31, Paul Kendall came out of the room, and, seeing the servant, ordered a carriage to be ready in half an hour.
“Is there much to see in this place, sir?” asked Clyde, politely.
“Not much, I think,” replied Paul.