“What do you?”
“Rot, every bit of it!”
I expected he would say so. “But, Jack,” I began.
“You don’t mean to say,” said Jack, “you’re going to let yourself be taken in by that stuff?”
“But unless he means what he says, what possible motive can he have for writing a letter like that?”
Jack did not answer. We did not discuss the matter further, but I went down to the office that morning with the letter in my pocket, heartily wishing I could make up my mind what to think of it all as easily as Jack Smith.
One thing, at any rate, was a comfort—I should not see Hawkesbury for two days.
But if I was to be spared the sight of one unwelcome person, I had in store for me another which I little expected. I was coming with Jack out of the office on the second evening afterwards, after a hard day’s work, wondering why my uncle did not write, and sighing inwardly at the prospect of seeing Hawkesbury back next day, when a stranger accosted me in the street.
At least, I thought him a stranger until, standing full in front of him, I saw his face and heard him speak.
“Oh, good evening, Mr Batchelor, sir! The governor’s compliments, sir—Mr Shoddy’s compliments—and he’ll be particularly glad if you’ll step round now, sir.”