George could hardly help sighing as his thoughts flew back to his own dingy cell under “H” staircase.
“Lay another plate, Smith,” said Jim, addressing his “gyp”; “and now, old man, make yourself comfortable.”
And then the host, in a business-like way, devoted himself to the mysteries of coffee-making and egg-boiling, in the midst of which occupation Clarke and the other Saint George’s man arrived.
George felt very miserable on being introduced and devoutly hoped the fellows would have sufficient to converse about among themselves, without it being needful for him to come under observation. This reserve, however, he was not destined to maintain for very long.
“Halliday,” said Clarke, “were you in chapel this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Well, did you ever hear the organ so grandly played?”
George blushed deeply, half with pleasure at this genuine compliment, and half with nervousness at the turn the talk was taking.
“And it wasn’t the regular organist,” said Clarke’s friend, “for I saw him downstairs.”
“No, it’s some fellow—plough-boy or stable-boy; or somebody he’s got hold of, so I heard. Whoever he is, he knows how to play.”