Both Step and Poke were in the room. They were facing each other, though neither appeared to be looking at the other. Poke was slumped on a lounge in an attitude of utter dejection, but Step might have posed for a picture of absolute woe.
At that moment even a stranger would have understood how Clarence Jones came by his nickname; for beyond denial he strongly suggested a step-ladder, and a step-ladder folded hastily. As he had picked out the lowest chair in the room, his knees seemed to rise to a level with his ears, while his long arms dangled till his hands rested limply on the floor. His head sagged upon his breast. His lips were moving, and from them came mournful sounds.
“Brace up, Poke!... Oh, brace up, I say!... Pull yourself together!... It’s certainly awful, but br-brace up, I tell you!”
Never was there more doleful encouragement; but it served, at least, to give Sam some clew to the mystery. It was Poke who was in trouble. Convinced of this, at least, he stepped into the room, and laid a hand on Poke’s shoulder.
“Well, what’s the row?” he demanded. “Must be a big one to keep you two from hearing the racket we raised outside.”
Poke slowly raised his head. He stared at Sam, vaguely, blankly. It was Step who spoke.
“You—you brace up, Poke! And you—you go away, Sam!... But don’t you let it knock you out, Poke! Be a man!”
Sam turned to him. “If you’re going to do the talking, talk sense!” he said sharply.
Step waved his long arms tragically.
“Sam, the worst has happened! Poke’s got a letter!”