o more. The excitement and injuries of the evening, added
to this sudden and terrible news of my only friend, were too much for
me. I don't exactly know what happened to me, but I have an idea young
Larkins was not able to get on with his postage-stamps much more that
evening.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

HOW I EXPERIENCED SOME OF THE DOWNS AND UPS OF FORTUNE.

My reader will hardly accuse me of painting myself in too flattering
colours. I only wish I could promise him that the record of my folly
should end here. But, alas! if he has patience to read my story to the
end he will find that Frederick Batchelor's folly was too inveterate to
be chased away by two black eyes and a piece of bad news.

But for the time being I was fairly cowed. As I lay awake that next
morning, after a night of feverish tossing and dreaming, I could think
of nothing but my friend Smith--ill, perhaps dying, in the hospital at
Packworth. I could do nothing to help him; I might not even go near
him. Who could tell if ever I should see him again? And then came the
memory of my cowardly refusal to stand up for him in his absence when he
was being insulted and mocked behind his back. No wonder I despised
myself and hated my life in London without him!

I got out of bed, determined at all costs to turn over a new leaf, and
show every one that I _was_ ashamed of what I had done. But as I did so
I became faint and sick, and was obliged to crawl back to bed. I had
all this time nearly forgotten my bruises and injuries of the previous
evening, but I was painfully reminded of them now, and gradually all the
misery of that exploit returned, and along with it a new alarm.

If Smith had caught smallpox from that wretched little street boy, was
it not possible--nay, probable--I might be beginning with it too? It
was not a pleasant thought, and the bare suggestion was enough to
convince me I was really becoming ill.

"I say, aren't you going to get up?" said young Larkins, at my bedside,
presently, evidently having come to see how I was getting on after last
night's sensation: "or are you queer still?"

"I'm very queer," said I, "and can't get up. I think I'm going to be
ill, Larkins. Would you mind calling at Hawk Street, and telling them
there?"

"All right!" said Larkins. "But what's the matter with you?"

"I'm not quite sure, but I'm afraid--have I got any spots coming out on
my face?"

"Eh? No; but your face is all black and blue, an