“Besides, he’s got his lodgings paid for him, so I’ve heard,” said another.
“Yes, there’s something in that. And on the whole he’s a pretty decent—hullo, Batchelor, I never knew you were here. So you’ve lost your chum, eh?”
“You seem to know all about it,” I growled, by no means won over by the vague compliments bestowed on me.
“Oh, yes, I know all about it,” cried Horncastle, mounting his high horse, and offended at my tones. “We were too respectable for him here. But we ain’t going into mourning for him. And if you go too we shan’t blub. Shall we, you fellows?”
“Not exactly,” replied the chorus, with much laughter.
I ate a miserable breakfast, and sallied forth disconsolately to my now solitary walk to the office.
Would Jack Smith turn up at Hawk Street? That was a question which exercised not only me but the other fellows who had witnessed yesterday’s catastrophe.
I hardly knew what to hope for. If he did come, I didn’t know what I should do, or how I should meet him. If he did not come, then I should know I had driven him not only from me but from his very prospects in life.
The general impression at Hawk Street was that he would not come. Doubleday and Harris had a bet of a shilling on the event.
“If he does turn up,” said Crow, “it’ll show he means to brazen it out before us all.”