I was perfectly amazed at my own hardihood in thus addressing him. But now I had paid him I was afraid of him no more. He was too much put out to keep up his chronic smile as he said. “I hardly expected to be spoken to in this way by you, Batchelor, after all that has happened. If you had been left to yourself, I’m sure you would not have spoken so, but your friend Smith appears to have a special spite against me.”
I was tempted to retort, but did not, and he went back pensively to his desk, taking the money with him.
The remainder of the five-pound note served to discharge my debts to the Twins, and to Tucker, the pastrycook, and Weeden, the tobacconist. The last two I paid myself; the first I sent by Doubleday, not wishing to encounter again the familiar heroes of the “usual lot.”
It was with a light heart and a sense of burden removed from my life that I returned that evening to the lodgings, whither jack had preceded me.
On my arrival I found him in a state of uneasiness.
“Very queer,” said he, “Billy’s not turned up. He was to be here at seven, and it’s now half-past; I never knew him late before.”
“Very likely he’s had some unexpected customers to detain him,” I said.
“Not likely. Billy wouldn’t be late for an appointment here if the Prince of Wales himself came to get his boots blacked.”
“What can have become of him, then?” I said.
“I wish I knew. I am afraid he’s got into trouble.”