While the crew of the “Nancy” were making merry in the kitchen, the parlour bell rang violently, and Laker disappeared from the scene.
“You’re wanted, Tommy, darling,” said the worthy woman, returning promptly.
Tommy rose and was ushered into the parlour.
“Little boy,” said Mrs Foster, “my son Guy has sent a message requiring your attendance. I tried to prevent him seeing you; but he insists on it. Come, I will take you to his room. You must try, child, and not encourage him to talk. It will be bad for him, I fear.”
“Leave us, mother, dear,” said Guy, as they entered; “I wish to be alone with Tommy, only for ten minutes—not longer.”
Mrs Foster tried to remonstrate, but an impatient gesture from her son induced her to quit the room.
“You can write, Tommy?”
“Yes, sir. I—I hope you ain’t much hurt, sir?”
“Oh no!—a mere scratch. It’s only the loss of blood that weakens me. I’ll be all right in a few days. Now, sit down at that table and take a pen. Are you ready?”
Tommy said that he was, and Guy Foster dictated the following note to Mr Denham, of the house of Denham, Crumps, and Company:—