“When you fellows have done,” I said, who had felt bound to submit to all this with the best grace I could, “I’ll get on with my work.”
“What a joker the fellow is!” said Doubleday. “One would think he was always at his work.”
“I want to work now,” I said. “I do indeed.”
“Do you indeed?” said Doubleday, mocking my tones and making a low bow.
“Since when did you take a fancy for hard labour?”
“Hard labour?”
At that moment the door opened and Jack Smith entered.
I could notice the quick start he gave as the words fell suddenly on his ear. He gave one scared look round the office, and then went quietly to his desk.
At the sight of him there was an abrupt silence amongst us. Crow and Wallop stopped short in the middle of their exclamation. Hawkesbury and I buried ourselves in our work, and Doubleday, standing before the fire, began to whistle softly.
Could anything have happened more awkwardly and suspiciously? Jack must certainly believe we were all talking about him, and the ill-fated word he had overheard would naturally suggest to him—