“I say,” said he suddenly one evening, as we were engaged in experimenting with a small steam-engine he had lately become the proud possessor of, “I saw your old friend Smith to-day!”
“Where?” I asked.
“Why, down Drury Lane. I heard of a new Russian stamp that was to be had cheap in a shop there, and while I was in buying it he came in.”
“Was he buying stamps too?”
“No; he lives in a room over the shop. Not a nice hole, I should fancy. Didn’t you know he was there?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, you should go and see the place. He’d much better come back here, tell him. But I thought you saw one another every day?” he added, in his simple way.
“Did he say anything to you?” I asked, avoiding the question.
“Yes. I asked him how he was getting on, and he said very well; and I asked him what he thought of the Russian stamp; and he said if I liked he could get me a better specimen at his office. Isn’t he a brick? and he’s promised me a jolly Turkish one, too, that I haven’t got.”
“Was that all?” I asked. “I mean all he said?”