For days he scarcely spoke a word. The silence of that office was unearthly. He opened the window, winter as it was, to let in the sound of cabs and footsteps for company. He missed even the familiar rustle of the “penny dreadfuls” as the boy turned their pages. He wished anybody, even his direst foe, might turn up to save him from dying of loneliness.
Chapter Fifteen.
A Letter from Horace.
“Dear Reg,” (so ran a letter from Horace which Reginald received a day or two after Master Love’s desertion), “I’m afraid you are having rather a slow time up there, which is more than can be said for us here. There’s been no end of a row at the Rocket, which you may like to hear about, especially as two of the chief persons concerned were your friend Durfy and your affectionate brother.
“Granville, the sub-editor, came into the office where Booms and Waterford and I were working on Friday morning, and said, in his usual mild way,—
“‘I should like to know who generally clears the post-box in the morning?’
“‘I do,’ said Booms. You know the way he groans when he speaks.
“‘The reason I want to know is, because I have an idea one or two letters lately have either been looked at or tampered with before the editor or I see them.’