id Hawkesbury, "it would have been much more straightforward of him to
tell the fellows what he was at first. They don't like being taken by
surprise in a matter like this. I really don't see that _he_ has so
much to complain of."

"But it was so low of Harris to fling it in his teeth like that," I
said.

"Well, yes, it was," said Hawkesbury; "but it was not as bad as if he
had said something about him that wasn't true. Well, good-night,
Batchelor. I hope it will be all right in time."

I was not much comforted by this conversation; and yet I was not
altogether displeased to find that Hawkesbury agreed with me in
condemning Harris's conduct, and his last argument, though it took away
nothing from my unkindness, certainly did strike me. However unpleasant
and cruel Jack's treatment had been, one must remember that the story
told about him was true. Yes, it was a great consolation to feel that,
whatever else had happened, no one had told a lie!

As I passed the top of Style Street, meditating on these things, I
became aware that Billy was striding across my path with a face full of
grimy concern.

"I say, master," he cried, "where's t'other bloke?"

"I don't know," I said, walking on.

"What, ain't you saw him?" he demanded, trotting along, blacking-brush
in hand, by my side.

"Yes--go away, do you hear? I don't want you walking beside me."

"That there clock," said Billy, pointing up to a clock just over his
usual place of business--"that there clock's been gone seving a lump,
and he ain't been."

"It's nothing to do with me," I cried angrily. "Come, get away, unless
you want your ears boxed."

"Won't he's boots be in a muck, though," continued the boy, wholly
regardless of my wrath, "without no shine."

"Do you hear what I say?" cried I, stopping short threateningly.

Billy slunk off more disconsolately than I had ever seen him, leaving me
to pursue my way unmolested.

I do not know where I wandered to that evening, or what I thought of as
I walked. My mind was too confused and miserable to take in anything
clearly, except that I had lost my friend.

Fellows passed me arm-in-arm, in earnest talk or with beaming faces, and
only reminded me of what I had lost. Memories of the past crowded in
upon me--of Stonebridge House, where his friendship had been my one
comfort and hope; of our early days in London, when it seemed as if,
with one another for company, nothing could come amiss, and no hards