“Hullo, young ’un!” he said. “Going home?”
“Yes, I’m going home,” said young Gedge.
“I heard from my brother yesterday. He was asking after you.”
“Was he?” said the boy half-sarcastically. “He does remember my name, then?”
“Whatever do you mean? Of course he does,” said Horace. “You know that well enough.”
“I shouldn’t have known it unless you’d told me,” said Gedge, with a cloud on his face; “he’s never sent me a word since he left.”
“He’s been awfully busy—he’s scarcely had time to write home. I say, young ’un, what’s the row with you? What makes you so queer?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the boy wearily; “I used to fancy somebody cared for me, but I was mistaken. I was going to the dogs fast enough when Cruden came here; I pulled up then, because I thought he’d stand by me; but now he’s gone and forgotten all about me. I’ll—well, there’s nothing to prevent me going to the bad; and I may as well make up my mind to it.”
“No, no,” said Horace, taking his arm kindly; “you mustn’t say that, young ’un. The last words Reg said to me when he went off were, ‘Keep your eye on young Gedge, don’t forget’; the very last words, and he’s reminded me of my promise in every letter since. I’ve been a cad, I know, not to see more of you; but you mustn’t go thinking that you’ve no friends. If it were only for Reg’s sake I’d stick to you. Don’t blame him, though, for I know he thinks a lot about you, and it would break his heart if you went to the bad. Of course you can help going to the bad, old man; we can all help it.”
The boy looked up with the clouds half brushed away from his face.