Jim was the same downright outspoken boy as ever. He had yielded, surlily at first, to the admission of Tom Drift into the confidence and friendship of himself and his chum, but by degrees, moved by Charlie’s example, he had become more hearty, and now these three boys were the firmest friends in Randlebury.
One day, as Charlie was sitting in his study attempting, with many groans, to make sense out of a very obscure passage in Cicero, his fag entered and said,—
“Newcome, there’s a parcel for you down at Trotter’s.”
“Why didn’t you bring it up, you young muff?” inquired his lord.
“Because it’s got to be signed for, and he wouldn’t let me do that for you.”
“Like your cheek to think of such a thing. What’s it like?”
“Oh, it’s in a little box. I say, Newcome, shall we go and get it?”
“I can’t go at present; it’ll wait, I suppose,” said Charlie, with the air of a man who was daily in the habit of receiving little boxes by the carrier.
But for all that he could not wholly conceal his curiosity.
“What size box?” he asked presently.