"Yes," I answered.

"No wonder he's a rough lot," said Whipcord. "I should have thought his governor might have done better for him than that."

"But," I said, feeling flurried by all this, and hardly knowing what I said, "he hasn't got a father--that is--I mean--"

"What do you mean?" asked Flanagan.

I was in a dreadful plight. Every one must have seen by my confusion that I was in a fix, and how was I to get out of it?

"Eh, what about his father?" demanded Doubleday.

"Oh," said I, "he's living abroad."

"Where, Botany Bay?" asked Daly, with a laugh.

I felt my face grow scarlet, and my whole manner utterly confused and guilty-looking, as I pretended not to hear the question, and turned to speak to Crow about some other matter. But my a.s.sailants were too quick for me. My manner had roused their curiosity and excited their suspicions, and I was not to be let off.

"Eh? Is that where he resides?" again demanded Daly.

"I really can't say where he lives," I replied, abruptly, and in a tone so unlike my ordinary voice that I hardly recognised it myself.

I was conscious of a startled look on the faces of one or two of the company as I said this, and of a low whistle from Crow.

What had I done?

"I don't think," said Hawkesbury, with his usual smile, "your friend Smith would be grateful to you, Batchelor, for letting the cat out of the bag like this."

"What cat?" I exclaimed, in an agitated voice. "You are all mistaken, indeed you are. Smith's father is not a--I mean he's merely away for his health, I a.s.sure you."

"Rather a lingering illness," drily replied the Field-marshal, amid general laughter, "if it's kept him abroad all these years."

"If you will take my advice, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, "you'll be careful how you tell everybody a thing like this. It's not a pleasant sort of thing to be known of a fellow."

"Indeed, indeed," I cried once more, almost beside myself with terror and rage, "you're all wrong. I wish I'd said nothing about it. Won't you believe me?"

"Delighted," said Whipcord, who with every one else had been enjoying my dismay, and laughing at my efforts to extricate myself. "You say Smith's governor is a--"

"No--it's false. I was telling a lie!" I cried, in tones of misery which any ordinary mortal would have pitied. "I don't know what he is.

I never heard of him. Indeed, indeed, I was only speaking in fun."

Thus wildly did I hope by a shield of lies to hide the secret which I had--by my manner more than my words--betrayed.

"I'm afraid, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, with a grave but sweet smile, "you either are not telling quite the truth, or you are speaking in fun about a very serious matter."

"Oh yes, you're right," I cried; "I've been telling lies; upon my honour I have."

"Upon his honour he's been telling lies," said Daly. "The fellow _will_ have his joke. Never saw such a joker in all my days."

I would fain have rushed from the place, but I dared not. Every word I said involved me deeper, and yet I could not leave them all like this without one effort at least either to recover my secret--Jack's secret-- or else to appeal to their confidence and generosity.

It was evident they were not disposed to believe anything I told them, except the one hideous fact. And that, though I had not uttered it in so many words, every one believed from my lips as if I had been inspired.

I sat in abject misery while the meal lasted, listening to the brutal jests made at the cost of my absent friend, and knowing that I was responsible for them all.

Directly supper was over I appealed to Doubleday.

"I do hope you won't say anything about this at the office, Doubleday,"

I said, imploringly. "It would be such a dreadful thing for it to get out."

"Then it is true?" demanded Doubleday.

"No--that is--I--I--don't know," responded I, "but oh! don't say anything about it."

"Bless me, if you don't know," said he, "why do you make such a fuss?

Take my advice, young un, and don't say any more about it to any one.

You've done very well so far, and if you want the fellows to forget all about it you'd better not remind them of it so much."

"But, Doubleday," I implored once more, "out of friendship for me--"

"Out of friendship for you let me offer you a cigar," said Doubleday.

"Now you fellows, what's it to be--whist, nap, poker, or what?"

I turned in despair to Hawkesbury.

"Please, Hawkesbury," I said, "promise to say nothing about it at the office. I would be so grateful if you would."

"Then," said Hawkesbury, asking the same question as Doubleday had just asked, "it is true?"

I dared not say "Yes," and to say "No" would, I knew, be useless.

"Oh, please don't ask me," I said, only "promise--do, Hawkesbury."

Hawkesbury smiled most sweetly.

"Really," he said, "one would think it was such a nice subject that a fellow would like to talk about it!"

"Then you won't!" I cried, ready to jump at the least encouragement; "oh, thanks, Hawkesbury!"

This was the only comfort I could get. Crow laughed at me when I appealed to him; and the other fellows reminded me that as they had not the pleasure of knowing my pet gaol-bird they were afraid they couldn't tell him what I had done, much as they would like.

Flanagan alone treated it seriously.

"Batchelor," said he, "I never believed you were such a fool. Can't you see you're only making things worse by your fuss? Why can't you hold your tongue? Smith has little enough to thank you for as it is."

He had indeed! As I walked home that evening, I felt as if I would never dare to look him in the face again.

It was late when I reached Beadle Square. Jack had returned before me, and was fast asleep in bed. A candle burned beside him, and on the counterpane, as if dropped from his hand, lay a book--a Roman History.

I groaned as I looked at him, and envied him his quiet sleep, the reward of honest work and a good conscience. I crept into bed that night as silently as I could, for fear of waking him.