“It is quite impossible, Harry,” said Ranald, “and I want you to take this note to Maimie. The note will explain to her.”
“But, Ranald, this is—”
“And, Harry, I want to tell you that this is my last day here.”
Harry gazed at him speechless.
“Mr. St. Clair and I have had a difference that can never be made right, and to-night I leave the office for good.”
“Leave the office for good? Going to leave us? What the deuce can the office do without you? And what does it all mean? Come, Ranald, don't be such a confounded sphynx! Why do you talk such rubbish?”
“It is true,” said Ranald, “though I can hardly realize it myself; it is absolutely and finally settled; and I say, old man, don't make it harder for me. You don't know what it means to me to leave this place, and—you, and—all!” In spite of his splendid nerve Ranald's voice shook a little. Harry gazed at him in amazement.
“I will give your note to Maimie,” he said, “but you will be back here if I know myself. I'll see father about this.”
“Now, Harry,” said Ranald, rising and putting his hand on his shoulder, “you are not going to mix up in this at all; and for my sake, old chap, don't make any row at home. Promise me,” said Ranald again holding him fast.
“Well, I promise,” said Harry, reluctantly, “but I'll be hanged if I understand it at all; and I tell you this, that if you don't come back here, neither shall I.”