“Your friend has performed his commission well,” he said, as he looked over book after book. “I recognise Susan’s handwriting—your grandmother, I mean; it must seem a long time ago to you, but to me it is as yesterday. I had not from the first moment any doubt as to your being Susan Fluke’s grandchild, but I am now convinced of it. You will find more interesting reading in these books than in any I possess, and you are welcome to make use of them.”
Owen accepted the offer, and for many an evening afterwards pored over in succession most of the well-remembered volumes.
Mr Fluke, the next morning, on his way to the office, called at an upholsterer’s, and purchased a dark oak bookcase, which he ordered to be sent home immediately. On his return home, with evident satisfaction he arranged the books within it.
Owen had every reason to be thankful for the kind treatment he received, but the life he spent was a dull one. In reply to letters he wrote to his friends at Fenside they warmly congratulated him on his good fortune.
Day after day he went to the office, where he was kept hard at work from the moment of his arrival until the closing hour, for, as it was found that he was more exact in his calculations than any one else, and as he wrote a hand equal to the best, he had always plenty to do, a few minutes only were allowed him to take his frugal dinner. Frequently also he was unable to enjoy even a few mouthfuls of such fresh air as Wapping could afford.
Generally he walked in and out with Mr Fluke, but he sometimes had to go alone. He was soon able to find his way without difficulty, but he never had an opportunity of going in other directions, so that all he knew of London was the little he saw of it while visiting the sights with John Rowe. Whatever the weather, he had to trudge to and fro. Several times he got wet through, and had to sit all day in his damp clothes.
Kezia suggested to Mr Fluke that the boy required a fresh suit—“His own is threadbare, and would be in holes if I did not darn it up at nights,” she observed.
“It’s good enough for the office, and what more does he want?” answered Mr Fluke. “Why, I have worn my suit well-nigh ten years, and it is as good as ever. Who finds fault with my coat, I should like to know?”
“The boy wants a thick overcoat, at all events,” continued Kezia, who had no intention of letting the matter drop. “If you don’t get him one, I will. He will catch his death of cold one of these days. He is not looking half as well as he did when he came, although he has grown wonderfully; he will, indeed, soon be too big for his jacket and trousers, if they do not come to pieces first.”
“Do as you choose, Kezia,” said Mr Fluke. “You always will have your own way, so there’s no use contradicting you.”