“Be quiet, sir, and go!” said she, more fiercely than I had ever known her.
I took up my cap and went. She was in no humour to listen to explanations, but it was clear I had done for myself now. After what had happened she was not likely to give me another chance.
I did not care to tell my mother how matters stood this time. It would be difficult to put my case in a favourable light, and I was quite sure my mother could not help me out of my difficulty.
I solemnly burned my crib that night in the parlour fire, after every one was in bed. It took ages to consume, and nearly set the chimney on fire in the operation. But when that was done I was as far off a solution of my difficulty as ever.
I hardly slept a wink, and in the morning my mother added to my discomfort by remarking on my looks.
“You’re working too hard, dear boy,” said she. “I must ask Miss Steele to give you a little holiday, or you’ll be quite knocked up.”
“Please don’t,” said I. “I’m all right.”
Here the postman’s knock caused a diversion.
“A letter for you, Tommy,” said my mother.
It was from Tempest, of all people—the first he had condescended to write me since we had parted company in Plummer’s hall nearly a year ago.