I was left to put on my poor shabby coat without help, and no one noticed me as I slunk from the room. Even Flanagan, from whom I had at least expected some sympathy, was too much taken up with the others to heed me; and as I walked slowly and unsteadily that night along the London streets, I felt for the first time since I came to the great city utterly friendless and miserable.
When I returned to Beadle Square every one had gone to bed except one boy, who was sitting up, whistling merrily over a postage-stamp album, into which he was delightedly sticking some recent acquisition. I could not help thinking bitterly how his frame of mind contrasted at that moment with mine. He was a nice boy, lately come. He kept a diary of everything he did, and wrote and heard from home every week. The fellows all despised him, and called him a pious young prig, because he said his prayers at night, and went to a chapel on Sundays. But, prig or not, he was as happy as a king over his stamps, and the sight made me (I knew not why), tenfold more miserable.
“Hullo!” said he, stopping whistling as I came in, “there’s a letter for you. I say, if you get any foreign stamps at your office I wish you’d save them for me, will you? Look, here’s a jolly Brazil one; I got it—what’s the matter?”
I heard not a word of his chatter, for the letter was from Packworth.
“Sir,—We’re afraid poor Master Johnny is very bad—he’s been taken to the hospital. He said, when he took ill, that it must have been a boy he took out of the streets and let sleep in his bed. Oh, sir, we are so sad! The young lady is better; but if Johnny dies—”
I could read no more. The excitement and injuries of the evening, added to this sudden and terrible news of my only friend, were too much for me. I don’t exactly know what happened to me, but I have an idea young Larkins was not able to get on with his postage-stamps much more that evening.