I slid down two flights. As I neared the landing above the hall I could hear that music had started afresh and dancing had recommenced. I was engaged to a rather sensible girl—already referred to—for the polka, and she would be looking out for me; but for the moment I was too full of troubles of my own to consider those of other people. The front door was open, and my mother was waving her hand.
“Mr. Cartwright!” I called out, running past her. “Mr. Cartwright! Oh, do let me speak to you for a minute.”
“Can’t stop, old boy,” he said from the cab. He seemed rather quiet.
“But I must speak to you. Mother, may I go down to the station with him? Oh, you are a good sort,” as she nodded her consent. I jumped in, and the cab started.
I felt so thankful when I saw in his hand an envelope with some pieces of gold, and I felt proud of her. I might have guessed mother would know how to do the right thing.
“Little man!” He was looking at a slip of paper with some pencilled words which the envelope also contained. “Do you ever take advice, I wonder?”
“I find it easier to give. People have been filling me up with it ever since I was about your age, and some of it has been good, but I have always done exactly as I pleased.”
“I suppose that’s the best plan.”
“No!” he replied. “It has some advantages, but not many.”