Meanwhile, Edward Hooper’s “chum” and fellow-lodger sat in their mutual chamber awaiting him.
John Barret did not drink, but he smoked; and, while waiting for his companion, he solaced himself with a pipe. He was a fine manly fellow, very different from Ned; who, although strong of limb and manly enough, was slovenly in gait and dress, and bore unmistakable marks of dissipation about him.
“Very odd; he’s later than usual,” muttered Barret, as he glanced out at the window, and then at the tea-table, which, with the tea-service, and, indeed everything in the room, proved that the young men were by no means wealthy.
“He’ll be taking an extra pot at the ‘Angel,’” muttered John Barret, proceeding to re-light his pipe, while he shook his head gravely; “but he’ll be here soon.”
A foot on the stair caused Barret to believe that he was a true prophet; but the rapidity and firmness of the step quickly disabused him of that idea.
The door was flung open with a crash, and a hearty youth with glowing eyes strode in.
“Fred Auberly!” exclaimed Barret in surprise.
“Won’t you welcome me?” demanded Fred.
“Welcome you? Of course I will, most heartily, old boy!” cried Barret, seizing his friend’s hand and wringing it; “but if you burst in on a fellow unexpectedly in this fashion, and with such wild looks, why—”
“Well, well, don’t explain, man; I hate explanations. I have come here for sympathy,” said Fred Auberly, shutting the door and sitting down by the fire.