“I say,” said I, “what are you going to do these holidays?”
“Stay here,” said he. “Are you going home?”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Stay here for four weeks with the old Hen? Why ever, Jack?”
“Don’t know—but that’s what I’ve got to do. Are you going home?”
“I suppose so,” said I, with an inward groan. “But, Jack, what will you do with yourself?”
“Much as usual, I expect. Sha’n’t get much practice in talking till you come back!” added he, with a low laugh.
“Jack, why don’t you go home?” I exclaimed. “Are you in a row there, or what? You never tell me a word about it.”
“Look-out, I hear some one moving!” cried Smith, and next moment he was back in his bed.
I was vexed. For I half guessed this alarm had been only an excuse for not talking about home, and I didn’t like being silenced in that way. Altogether that night I was a good deal put out with Smith, and when presently he whispered across “Good-night,” I pretended to be asleep, and did not answer.
But I was not asleep, and could not sleep. I worked myself first into a rage, then into an injured state, and finally into a miserable condition over my friend Smith.