And so I waited week after week. I saw him daily, but our eyes scarcely ever met. Only when I glanced at him furtively I thought him looking paler and thinner even than usual, and longed still more intensely to call him my friend and know why it was.
“Most likely he’s fretting,” said Hawkesbury, “and will soon give in. It’s a wonder to me how he’s held out so long.”
“Unless he speaks to me soon, I’ll risk everything and speak to him.”
“I can quite understand your anxiety,” said my counsellor, “but I really wouldn’t be too impatient.”
I tried to find out from Billy the reason of Jack’s altered looks.
“Yaas,” said he, in response to my inquiry whether he had heard if my friend was ill—“yaas, he do look dicky. ‘Governor,’ says I, ‘what’s up?’ I says. ‘Up,’ says he, ‘what do you mean by it?’ says he. ‘Go on,’ says I, ‘as if you didn’t know you was queer!’ ‘I ain’t queer,’ says he. ‘Oh, no, ain’t you,’ says I; ‘what do you want to look so green about the mazard for, then?’ says I. ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ says he; ‘reading late at night, that’s what that is,’ says he. ‘Turn it up,’ says I. ‘So I will,’ says he, ‘when my Sam’s over,’ says he. Bless you, governor, I’d like to give that there Sam a topper, so I would.”
So, then, he was reading for an examination! This paleness, after all, did not come from fretting on my account, but because he had found an occupation which drove me from his thoughts evening after evening!
I felt more hopeless of recovering my friend than ever.
“Do you go to the ragged school still?” I asked.
“Yaas, a Fridays. I say, governor, look here.”