“Captain Craig plans to give them all a supper this evening, and I promised him I would be on hand with George.”
“Very well; I will send for him.”
She stepped to the hall and rang a bell. While she was speaking to the maid Mr. Bigelow came into the hall, with a little girl hanging to each arm. He paused in the doorway of the reception-room and nodded to Halloran.
“How do you do,” he said.
“How do you do, sir.”
“This is John Halloran, dear,” said his wife, turning. “He has come to take George away. George's grandfather, he tells me, is really quite respectable.”
Mr. Bigelow had shaken off the children and was getting into his overcoat.
“It is just as well,” he replied, without looking around. “We really have no work for him here.” At this moment the subject of the talk himself appeared, advancing bashfully, overcome by the splendour about him, and not yet knowing why he had been summoned. He looked at Halloran for a moment before he recognized him.
“How are you, George,” said Halloran, advancing and holding out his hand. “Do you remember me?”
George blushed, grinned and took his hand; and as he did so, Mr. Bigelow, with his coat buttoned and one glove on, turned around. He looked at George—a tall, awkward, ill-dressed boy of sixteen—with a curious, gruff expression, then his eyes shot one quick, inquiring look at Halloran.