There was a curiously-set expression of determination on the bright, young face, very much as if he had made up his mind to do something, and did not mean to be very long in going about it.
Such a ludicrously disreputable looking mess of a man was the large figure that now began to kick about so clumsily among the bedclothes!
He had not taken off his clothes on lying down, and every one might have wondered what need he had of extra blankets in such weather.
But now a grizzled head and a bloated face rose slowly from the pillow—one of those faces which defy any guess of within twenty years of their actual age.
“Jack—Jack Chills!”
“That isn’t my name, but here I am,” responded the boy in the chair.
“No more it is. Alas, for all my sins!” exclaimed the man, “but you cannot deceive your old uncle, my boy. I know what you’re up to. You mean to take advantage of my temporary indisposition and abandon me!”
“That’s it,” said the boy, curtly. “It’ll be two or three days before you get sober enough to follow me, and I’m off.”
“I deserve it, I do,” was the mournful whine of the man on the bed. “I ought never to have brought you to this.”
“I’ve seen you before,” said the boy, “when you were sick and sorry. You brought me, years and years ago, but I’m older now and I don’t mean to stay any longer.”