together once more, and have the
same dear old times over again. I shan't put up with any excuses, as I
know you take your holiday about this time, so just write and say when
you are coming."

Jack lifted his eyes from the letter, and made a grab at the loaf.

"I should like to go," he muttered; "how jolly the place must
look!--but no, I've left it too long. I ought to have gone back at
once, or never to have run away like that. Of course, now they must
think that I stole the watch. Yet, perhaps, if I gave them my word of
honour, they'd believe me; I know Aunt Mabel would."

At this moment the door opened, and a gentleman entered the room. He
was wearing a shabby-looking dressing-gown, a couple of ragged quill
pens were stuck in his mouth, and he carried in his hand a bundle of
closely-written sheets of foolscap. Mr. Basil Fenleigh, to tell the
truth, was about to issue an invitation to a "few friends" to join him
in starting an advertisement and bill-posting agency business; to be
conducted, so said the rough copy of the circular, on entirely novel
lines, which could not fail to ensure success, and the drafting out of
which had occupied most of his leisure time during the past twelve
months.

"Humph!" he exclaimed sourly. "Down at your usual time, eh? You'll be
late again at your office."

"No, I shan't," answered the son, glancing up at the clock. "I can get
there in ten minutes."

"You can't. You know very well Mr. Caston complained only the other
day of your coming behind your time. The next thing will be that
you'll lose your situation."

"I don't care if I do; I'm heartily sick of the place."

"You're heartily sick of any kind of work, and you always have been."

Jack threw down his knife and fork and rose from the table, leaving
part of his breakfast unfinished on his plate.

"All right," he said sulkily; "I'll go at once."

He strode out of the room, crushing Queen Mab's letter into a crumpled
ball of paper in his clenched fist. After what had just passed, he
would certainly not broach the subject of a holiday.

The morning's work seemed, if possible, more distasteful than ever.
Casting up sheets of analysis, he got wrong in his additions, and had
to go over them again. He watched the workmen moving about in the yard
outside, and wished he had been trained to some manual trade like
theirs. Then he thought of Valentine, and for the first time his
affection for his old friend gave pla