My decision appeared to afford much amus.e.m.e.nt to the other clerks.

"Landed at last!" said Doubleday, mopping his face with his handkerchief and puffing like a man who had just gone through some great exertion.

I did not join in the laughter that followed, and spent the rest of the day rather uncomfortably. In the evening I left Jack at his desk.

"I hope you don't mind my going," I said. He looked up, half vexed, half astonished. "What do you mean?" he replied. "Surely it's nothing to do with me?"

"Oh, I know. But I wouldn't care to do it if you didn't like it.

Besides, I feel rather low going when you're not asked too."

"I shouldn't go if I was asked," replied Jack.

"Why not?" I inquired.

"I've something better to do with my time and my money than that sort of thing," he replied, quietly.

I went up to Doubleday's that evening more uneasy in my mind than I had been for a long time. I was angry with him for asking me; I was angry with myself for going; and I was angry with Smith because I felt his rebuke was a just one.

"Hullo, young un!" cried my host as I entered his now familiar lodgings; "all waiting for you. Why, how glum you look! Has the Lantern been lecturing you? or have you been having a dose of cold eel-pie on the road? or what? Come on. You know all these fellows. By the way, my boy, glorious news for you! Don't know what we've all done to deserve it, upon my honour, but Abel here has knocked out one of his front teeth, so there'll be no more trouble about spotting him now."

Abel grinned and exhibited the gap in his jaw which had called forth this song of thankfulness from our host.

"How ever did you do it?" I asked, glad to turn the conversation from myself.

"Ran against a lamp-post," replied the mutilated Twin.

This simple explanation caused much merriment, for every one chose to believe that Abel had been intoxicated at the time, and as Abel himself joined in the laugh, it was easy to see that if that had been the cause of the accident, neither he nor any one else would be greatly ashamed of it.

"What would Jack think?" I could not help saying to myself.

Hawkesbury walked over to where I was and shook hands. "I'm glad you've come," said he, sweetly smiling; "I was afraid you would be prevented."

"No, I'd nothing to prevent me," replied I, colouring up.

"I fancied you would prefer staying with your friend Smith, or that he might not like you to come."

"Smith is working late at the office to-night," I replied, shortly.

"Now you fellows!" cried Doubleday, "if you want any grub, sit down.

Batch, old man, will you take that end of the table? you're used to lobsters, I know."

Once more I blushed to the roots of my hair, as I obeyed in as unconcerned a manner as I could.

"What's the joke about the lobster?" asked Hawkesbury, innocently.

I wished the ground would open and swallow me. Was that unlucky lobster, then, to haunt me all the days of my life?

"There was no joke about it, I can tell you that!" said Whipcord, with a significant grimace; "was there, Daly?"

"Well, I don't know," said Daly, looking mysterious; "there was one rather good joke about it, if what I was told is true."

"What's that?" demanded the company.

"It was paid for!"

Don't you pity me, reader? I was obliged to join in the laugh, and appear to enjoy it.

"They're rather down on you," said Hawkesbury, amiably.

"Oh, they like their little joke," said I.

"So they do--who's got the b.u.t.ter?" said Doubleday--"so does everybody-- hang it, the milk's burnt; don't you taste it burnt, Field-Marshal?

I'll give my old woman notice--so does everybody, except--the m.u.f.fins, please, Crow--except your precious friend Smith. I don't suppose he ever enjoyed a joke in his life now, or--help yourself, Hawkesbury--or saw one either, for the matter of that, notwithstanding his bull's- eyes."

"I don't know," said I, relieved again to divert the talk from myself, and glad at the same time to put in a mild word for my friend, "I think Smith has a good deal of fun in him."

"I'd like to know where he keeps it," said Crow; "I never saw it."

"Oh! I did," said Hawkesbury, "at school. He was a very amusing fellow at school, wasn't he, Batchelor? Did Batchelor ever tell you of the great rebellion that he and Smith got up there?"

I had not told the story, and was there and then called upon to do so-- which I did, much to the gratification of the company.

"Why don't you bring this mysterious Mr Smith down to show to us one evening?" asked Whipcord. "We're always hearing about him. I'd like to see him, wouldn't you, Twins?"

"Very," replied Abel, who evidently had been thinking of something else.

"I'm not sure," said I, "whether he'd come out. I don't think he cares much about visiting."

"I hope he doesn't think it's wrong to visit," said the Field-Marshal.

"No, not that," said I, sorry I had embarked on the subject; "but somehow he doesn't get on, I think, in company."

"I should rather say he doesn't!" said Crow--"at any rate, at Hawk Street, for a more stuck-up, disagreeable, self-righteous prig I never saw."

"I think," said Hawkesbury, mildly, "you judge him rather hardly, Crow.

Some of us thought the same at school; but I really think he means well."

"Yes," said I, ready to follow up this lead, "his manner's against him, perhaps, but he's a very good fellow at bottom."

"Besides," said Hawkesbury, "he really has had great disadvantages. He has no friend at all in London, except Batchelor."

This was flattering, certainly, and naturally enough I looked sheepish.

"I beg your pardon," said Hawkesbury, suddenly perceiving his error, "I meant that he has very few friends at all; isn't that so, Batchelor?"

"Yes," said I, "very few."

"Wasn't he in a grocer's shop, or some place of the kind, before he came to us?" asked Doubleday.