It did one good to hear the laugh with which Charlie greeted this reminder.
“I’d give my repeater, and a ten-pound note besides, to get back that old watch,” said he. (If he had but known!) “But there’s no knowing where it is now; poor Tom Drift must have parted with it years ago.”
With such talk the meal proceeded, and presently the conversation grew more general, and branched out on to all sorts of topics. George, having got over the first strangeness of finding himself in society, found it not so bad after all; and, indeed, he very soon amazed himself by the amount he talked. It was a new world to him, the hermit of the “Mouse-trap,” to find himself exchanging ideas with men of his own intellectual standing; and he certainly forgave Jim his persistency in compelling his company this morning. He forgot the patches in his clothes among such gentlemen as Clarke and Charlie, and for the first time in his life felt himself superior to his natural diffidence and reserve. Who could help being at his ease where Charlie was? He kept up a running fire of chaff at his old schoolfellow, for which occasionally the others came in; and if it be true that laughter is a good digestive, Jim Halliday’s breakfast that morning must have agreed with the five who partook of it.
“Who’s this coming?” suddenly exclaimed the latter, as there came a sound of footsteps slowly ascending the stairs.
“Two of them!” said Charlie. “Perhaps it’s your tailor and your hatter with their little bills.”
“Whoever it is, they’re blowing hard,” said Clarke.
“They don’t enjoy my ‘Gradus at Parnassum,’” said Jim. “Come in, all of you!” he shouted.
The door opened slowly, and there appeared to the astonished eyes of Jim and his party a grave middle-aged gentleman and still more grave and middle-aged lady.
“Oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle and aunt!” groaned Jim.