“Not unless your name’s Smith,” said the postman. “Smith of Beadle Square, that’s the party—might as well send a letter to a straw in a haystack.”
“My name’s Smith,” said Jack.
“Is it?” said the postman, evidently relieved. “Then I suppose it’s all right.”
So saying he placed the letter in Jack’s hand and walked on, evidently quite proud to have found out a Smith at first shot.
Jack’s colour changed as he took the letter and looked at it.
He evidently recognised the cramped, ill-formed hand in which it was addressed.
“It’s from Packworth!” he exclaimed, as he eagerly tore open the envelope.
I don’t think he intended the remark for me, for we had never once referred either to his home or his relatives since the first day we were together in London. In fact, I had almost come to forget that my friend Smith had a home anywhere but in Beadle Square.
He glanced rapidly over the short scrawl, and as he did so his face turned pale and a quick exclamation escaped his lips.
“Anything wrong, old man?” I asked.