“Give it me,” said Harry; “I wish I had never signed it,” a sudden flash of sense coming across his mind.
“So ho! boy, be calm, my dear fellow,” answered Sleech. “You will find that you have got to deal with your master.”
Harry Tryon never knew what papers he signed that fatal night, nor what names he had written on them. He had a faint idea that he had moved his hand according to Sleech’s guidance.
The next day Mr Sleech declared himself indisposed, and told Harry he should not go out that evening. They were alone in the office. It was the business of Mr Sleech to see it closed. Harry’s head ached fearfully. He had never felt so depressed. Several bills had come in, and he had already spent every farthing of his salary for the quarter. Silas Sleech approached him.
“I rather think, Harry Tryon, this is the last day you will be at this office—that is to say, if you take my advice.”
“What do you mean?” asked Harry.
“Why just this, my dear fellow, listen to reason. There are certain papers to which you have put your hand. These will be brought before your uncle in the course of a day or two, and will be strong evidence against you, that you have aided in a serious fraud. You are in my debt for 500 pounds. I have your acknowledgment. You owe your tailor and other tradesmen no small amount. Now, you don’t know Mr Coppinger as I do. When he finds all this out, he will come down upon you with a severity to which you are little accustomed. I tell you, Harry, he would, without the slightest compunction, have you shut up in Newgate, and see you sent to the scaffold, even though you were his own son, instead of his grand-nephew. Thus you see your character is blasted, and all hopes of success in business cut off.”
Harry had sat with his hands clenched and his eyes fixed on Silas Sleech while he made these remarks.
“Sleech, you are a villain!” he exclaimed with vehemence; “a cunning, hypocritical scoundrel!”
“Very likely,” answered the other. “Go on, young one, what else am I?”