“What, Harry!” exclaimed Mr. Jernshaw, in response to the wrinkles. “Harry Barrett!”
“That’s me,” said the other, extending his hand. “The rolling stone come home covered with moss.”
Mr. Jernshaw, somewhat excited, shook hands, and led the way into the little parlour behind the shop.
“Fifteen years,” said Mr. Barrett, sinking into a chair, “and the old place hasn’t altered a bit.”
“Smithson told me he had let that house in Webb Street to a Barrett,” said the grocer, regarding him, “but I never thought of you. I suppose you’ve done well, then?”
Mr. Barrett nodded. “Can’t grumble,” he said modestly. “I’ve got enough to live on. Melbourne’s all right, but I thought I’d come home for the evening of my life.”
“Evening!” repeated his friend. “Forty-three,” said Mr. Barrett, gravely. “I’m getting on.”
“You haven’t changed much,” said the grocer, passing his hand through his spare grey whiskers. “Wait till you have a wife and seven youngsters. Why, boots alone——”
Mr. Barrett uttered a groan intended for sympathy. “Perhaps you could help me with the furnishing,” he said, slowly. “I’ve never had a place of my own before, and I don’t know much about it.”
“Anything I can do,” said his friend. “Better not get much yet; you might marry, and my taste mightn’t be hers.”