“Who’s your friend?” said Hawkesbury to him, with a smile.
“My friend’s a shoeblack,” drily replied Smith.
“All, a curious little fellow. Well, as I dare say you’ve plenty to say to one another, I’ll be going. Good-bye,” and he shook hands with us both and departed.
That evening Jack and I had a long and painful discussion about Hawkesbury. As usual, he had not a good word to say for him, while I, on the contrary, thought that at any rate he might be well-meaning.
“All I can say is,” said Jack, “it wouldn’t take much to make me leave Hawk Street now.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” I cried, miserable at the bare idea.
“Don’t be afraid,” said he, bitterly. “A convict’s son can’t get taken on anywhere, and I shall just have to stay where I am as long as there are the people at home to depend on me.”
He said this in such a sad tone that my heart bled for him. Alas! there seemed to be anything but happy days in store for my friend Smith.