“No fear!” said Billy, who was once more resuming his gymnastic exercises.
And so we left him.
My friend Smith was certainly a queer fellow. He seemed more interested during the remainder of our walk with the little dishonest shoeblack we had just left than with my half-candid story of my life in London during his absence.
“Depend upon it, that’s his way of making amends,” said he; “there’s some good in the young scamp after all.”
“It’s precious hard to discover,” said I. “He appears to me to be a graceless young reprobate, who knows well enough that it’s wicked to steal, and seems rather proud of it than otherwise. I say, Jack, I’d advise you not to have too much to do with him. He’s done you harm enough as it is.”
When we returned to Beadle Square we found our amiable fellow-lodgers evidently expecting our arrival. It was so long since I had taken supper at Mrs Nash’s that I seemed quite as much a stranger as Jack.
“Here they come,” said Horncastle, who always shone on occasions like this. “Here comes the two smallpoxes. Hold your noses, you fellows.”
In this flattering manner we were received as we proceeded to seat ourselves in our accustomed place at the table.
“They seem as cheerful and merry as ever,” said Jack, solemnly, to me, looking round him.
“I say, Jones,” cried Horncastle, in an audible voice to a friend, “wonderful how Batchelor turns up here now the other’s come home! Got to stop going out every night now, and coming home drunk at two in the morning, eh? Going to behave now, eh? But he does go it, don’t he, when his keeper’s back’s turned, eh?”