I had strolled along to the corner of Bedford Street, down-hearted and low-spirited, I must confess. Ah! to know how absolutely lonely a man can be amid those hurrying millions, one must be penniless. In the seven years that had passed, most of my friends had dispersed, and those who still remained cared little for a ne’er-do-well such as myself. In that walk I calmly reviewed the situation. Away in quiet old Shrewsbury my white-haired, widowed mother lived frugally, full of fond thoughts of her only boy. She had brought herself to the verge of poverty that I might complete my studies and become a doctor. Poor mother! She believed, like so many believe, that every doctor makes a comfortable income. And I had worked—nay, slaved—night and day, through seven whole years, for less wage than an average artisan.
I had not dined, for, truth to tell, I had hesitated to change my last sovereign; but the pangs of hunger reminded me that nothing had passed my lips since the breakfast in my dingy lodgings, and knowing of a cheap eating-house in Covent Garden, I had paused for a moment at the corner.
Next instant I felt a hearty slap on the back, and a cheery voice cried—
“Why, Colkirk, old fellow, what’s up? You look as though you’re going to a funeral?”
I turned quickly and saw a round, fresh-coloured, familiar face before me.
“By Jove!” I exclaimed in pleasant surprise. “Raymond! is it really you?” And we grasped hands heartily.
“I fancy so,” he laughed. “At least, it’s what there is left of me. I went out to Accra, you know, got a sharp touch of fever, and they only sent back my skeleton and skin.”
Bob Raymond was always merry and amusing. He had been the humourist of Guy’s, in my time: the foremost in practical joking, and the most backward in learning. The despair of more than one eminent lecturer, he had, nevertheless, been one of the most popular fellows in our set, and had occupied diggings in the next house to where I lodged in a mean street off Newington Butts.
“Well,” I laughed, “if you left your flesh behind you on the West Coast, you’ve filled out since. Why, you’re fatter than ever. What’s your beverage? Cod-liver oil?”
“No; just now it’s whisky-and-seltzer with a big chunk of ice. Come into Romano’s and have one. You look as though you want cheering up.”