“You’re a duffer, old man. Aren’t you getting on at Hawk Street, then?”
“Oh yes, well enough, but it’s most fearfully slow. The same thing every day.”
Jack smiled. “They can’t alter the programme just to suit you.”
“Of course not,” I cried, feeling very miserable; “of course I’m an ass, but I’d sooner be back at Stonebridge House than here.”
“By the way,” said Smith, suddenly, “talking of Stonebridge House, who did you think I ran against to-day at dinner-time?”
“Who, old Henniker?” I inquired.
“Rather not. If I had, I think I should have been game for running away along with you. No, it was Flanagan.”
“Was it? I should like to have seen him. What’s he doing?”
“Not much, I fancy. He says his brother’s a solicitor, and he’s come up to loaf about in his office and pick up a little law.”
“Oh, I like that,” I cried, laughing. “Think of old Flanagan a lawyer. But didn’t he say where he was living?”