“Well,” said Jack, “I don’t see it could be much worse than letting them hear all about it from him.”
With which consoling but desperate resolution we proceeded.
To beguile the time, we went round by Style Street.
A youth was standing having his boots blacked as we came up. We thought we recognised the figure—though till he turned round we could not recall his name. Then to our surprise we saw it was Flanagan.
But such a swell as he was! He had alarmed me more than once by the grandeur of his attire when I had met him at the parties of the “usual lot.” I had seen him rarely since. As for Jack, the two had scarcely met since they left Stonebridge House.
“Hullo, Batchelor,” he cried, as we approached, “that you? I heard you’d been ill, and—why, Smith,” he broke out, catching sight of my companion, “how are you? Haven’t seen you for ages! And the rum thing is I was speaking about you this very moment—wasn’t I, kid?”
“Yaas,” said Billy, with a grin.
“You know, Batchelor, you once introduced me to this young gentleman when we were rolling home one night after a spree—fearfully slow parties some of those!—and I’ve given him a job pretty often since—and he was just telling me about you. Lodging Drury Lane way, I hear?”
“Yes,” said I. There was something so genuine in the tone of my old schoolfellow that I could almost forgive him his grand clothes.
“I say, couldn’t you come along to my rooms to-night? I’m all by myself. Jolly to talk over old days. Come on, Smith.”