“Do you hear, nob,” broke in Billy, unable to restrain himself any longer; “you ain’t a-wanted here.”
Hawkesbury looked round with an amused smile.
“Really,” said he, “a most gratifying reception, and from a most unexpected quarter. Er—excuse me, Smith, I’m afraid it’s rather a strange request—would you mind allowing me to have a little private conversation with my friend?”
“No,” replied Smith, firmly.
“Really,” said Hawkesbury. “I must appeal to Batchelor himself.”
“I shall answer for Batchelor,” said Smith, not giving me time to reply. “Leave my room, please.”
“Do you hear? You leave the bloke’s room,” cried Billy. “Ef you don’t you’ll get a topper.”
Hawkesbury, whose colour had been rising during the last few moments, and whose assurance had gradually been deserting him, now turned round with a ceremonious smile to the last speaker as he rose to his feet and said, “If you desire it, I’ll go. I can submit to be ordered off by a shoeblack, but the son of a convict is—”
With clenched fist and crimson face Jack gave a sudden bound towards the speaker. But as suddenly he checked himself and walked gently to my bed, where I had started up ready to spring to my feet and back up my friend in what seemed a certain quarrel.
“What a cad I am!” he murmured, as he bent over me, and motioned me gently back to my pillow, “but the fellow nearly drives me mad.”