“Yes,” said he, looking up with a face full of trouble. “Here, you can see it,” he added, putting the letter into my hand.
It was a very short letter, and ran thus:—
“Dear Mister Johnny,—Mary is very very ill. Could you come and seen her? Do come—from Jane Shield.”
“Mary is my sister,” said Jack, nearly breaking down. “I must go, whether Barnacle lets me or no.”
Our walk to the office that morning was quicker than usual, and more silent. Poor Jack was in no mood for conversation, and I fancied it would be kinder not to worry him. We reached Hawk Street before any of the partners had come, and Smith’s patience was sorely tried by the waiting.
“I say,” said he presently to me, “I must go, Fred. Will you tell them?”
“Yes, if you like, only—”
“Now then, you two,” cried Mr Doubleday, looking round; “there you are, larking about as usual. Go off to your work, young Import, do you hear? and don’t stand grinning there!”
Poor Jack looked like anything but grinning at that moment.
“I’ll do the best I can,” I said, “but I’m afraid Barnacle will be in a wax unless you ask him yourself.”