He spoke as if he was still a boy—as indeed, he was, having been confined to the society of boys, and having drawn the pay of a boy for so many years.
"Never mind rules—tell me all about Bob."
"He was a drinker and a spendthrift—that's enough about him."
Josephus spoke in a whisper, being anxious not to discuss the family disgrace among his fellow-clerks.
"Good! Were you a friend as well as a cousin of his?"
"No, I never was—I was respectable in those days, and desirous of getting my character high for steadiness. I went to evening lectures and taught in the Wesleyan Sunday-schools. Of course, when the notes were stolen, it was no use trying any more for character—that was gone. A young man suspected of stealing £14,000 can't get any character at all. So I gave up attending the evening lectures, and left off teaching in the school, and going to church, and everything."
"You were a great fool, Josephus—you ought to have gone on and fought it out. Now then, on the day that you lost the money, had you seen Bob—do you remember?"
"That day?" the unlucky junior replied; "I remember every hour as plain as if it was to-day. Yes, I saw Bob. He came to the office half an hour before I lost the notes. He wanted me to go out with him in the evening, I forget where—some gardens, and dancing, and prodigalities. I refused to go. In the evening I saw him again, and he did nothing but laugh while I was in misery. It seemed cruel; and the more I suffered the louder he laughed."
"Did you never see Bob again?"