“None that I know of. I’m absolutely alone in the world.”
“Well, well! We’ll see about it. Surely something can be done. Don’t get down-hearted. Everything will come out all right.”
The little doctor went away, and Hugh continued to stare at the soiled ceiling. There came to him a desperate vision of palms and sunshine. But that was not for him. He must stay in this raw bleak London and perish as many a young chap had perished....
Next morning came another knock at the door. It was Mr. Ainger.
“Well, my lad, how are you feeling?”
“A little better. I hope I’ll soon be able to get back to my ledger.”
“Nonsense, my boy! You’ll never come back. You’re expected to hand in your resignation. The doctor holds out no hope. You can’t go on drawing on your salary indefinitely.”
Hugh swallowed hard. “No, that’s right. You’ve treated me square. I can’t complain.”
“Complain, I should say not; look here....”
With that Mr. Ainger took from his pocket a sheaf of crisp Bank of England notes and began to spread them out on the bed.