“Young Batch,” said Doubleday one morning about a week after Hawkesbury’s arrival, “come up to my diggings this evening. The other fellows are coming up, and the new boss too.”
This was rather an awkward question, as since Jack’s return I had not gone out, and I imagined every one would conclude it was no use inviting me without him.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Doubleday, noticing my hesitation. “You’ll ask Bull’s-eye’s leave, and then tell me. Here, Bull’s-eye, Smith—whatever your name is—I want young Batch to come up to supper with me this evening, and like a dutiful boy he says he can’t come till you give him leave. What do you say?”
“Don’t be an ass, Doubleday!” I cried, quite ashamed and confused to stand by and hear Smith thus appealed to. “I—I’m afraid I can’t come this evening.”
“Previous engagement?” said Doubleday, with a wink.
“No,” I said; “I’m going for a walk with Smith.”
“I’m going to stay here late to-night,” said Jack, quietly, “I want to catch up some work.” I wished I knew what he meant by it. “All serene! then the young ’un can come to us, can’t he?” said Doubleday.
“Thanks,” said I, not appearing to notice that the question was addressed to Smith.
My decision appeared to afford much amusement to the other clerks.
“Landed at last!” said Doubleday, mopping his face with his handkerchief and puffing like a man who had just gone through some great exertion.